


Drowning in My Insignificance

by Pippinpaddleopsicopolis (Barnable)



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Bisexual Sokka (Avatar), Bulimia, But the Focus Here is on Sokka's Mental Health Not the Conflict, Depression, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), Gen, Hakoda (Avatar) is a Good Parent, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Hurt Sokka (Avatar), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, POV Sokka (Avatar), Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Protective Toph Beifong, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Seriously the Rating is for Heavy Depictions of Self-Harm, Sokka (Avatar) Has ADHD, Sokka (Avatar) Has Chronic Pain, Sokka (Avatar) Needs a Hug, Sokka (Avatar)-centric, Someone Get This Man a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts, War, stay safe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:42:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barnable/pseuds/Pippinpaddleopsicopolis
Summary: Five years have passed since the end of the Hundred Year War. Five years that Sokka was able to go about his days without having to plan any elaborate strategies or worry about his friends potentially dying each time they went out. Five years where everything finally seemed to be okay.Despite his varyingly terrible chronic pain and sporadically suffering mental health, Sokka was satisfied with his life at the Southern Water Tribe. Alongside his budding relationship with the Fire Lord, he was just happy to be living in a world of peace after being forced to grow up in a war.If only that peace could've lasted forever.
Relationships: Aang & Sokka (Avatar), Bato & Sokka (Avatar), Hakoda & Sokka (Avatar), Katara & Sokka (Avatar), Sokka & Suki (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), Toph Beifong & Sokka
Comments: 116
Kudos: 139





	1. Staring at the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Quick thank you to everyone on [my tumblr](https://tikmasjiens.tumblr.com/) who has sent in ideas and inspired this story! Special shout-outs to ghuiyun for contributing ideas off anon and pseudoacademicpsycho for [this stunning piece of artwork](https://tikmasjiens.tumblr.com/post/639409011286016001/uhhhh-so-i-saw-your-response-to-the-sokka-war-fic) based on the first scene. <3

“I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough.”

Sokka blinked when the first drop of liquid slipped off his wrist and crashed against the desk in an explosion of bright red misery. It used to bother him, seeing that color coat his arm and slide down his fingers, feeling the tingly sensation as it escaped out the splits in his skin, but not anymore. Not when every look in the mirror was a look into the lives his reckless decisions had cost them. Not when he was arguably a mass murderer and everyone refused to accept it. Not when the only punishments he could get were the ones he inflicted upon himself. He didn’t deserve anyone’s sympathy, but they gave it to him anyway.

“I’m sorry nothing I try seems to end this.”

At that point, Sokka was fully aware that he was making bad decisions, but he didn’t know how to stop. Salty clear droplets joined the splashes of blood on his desk when he leaned over it, shifting his hand just to the right. He could cut as many times as he wanted, but he wasn’t allowed to go too far. He wasn’t allowed to walk away and escape when everyone else still had to deal with the consequences of his actions. So, he didn’t. Sokka didn’t just deserve the punishment, he craved it. The relief, the comfort, the familiarity that came with the blade. The edge was the only thing that kept him sane those days.

“I’m sorry that you’re dead because of me.”

He inhaled sharply when he pushed too deep. Three years Sokka had been clean before that. Three short years where he was happy and okay and doing everything he ever wanted to. Then the world decided to fall apart and drag him right back into the mud. Sokka pulled the knife away quickly, sniffing colored as drops crashed to the wood beneath him. He wasn’t intending to do anything permanent. He just needed a distraction from the mental pain. A few moments where he could focus on something that wasn’t the war.

“I’m sorry.”

No matter how many times he apologized, no matter how many times he begged them to go, the shadows wouldn’t leave him alone. The figures of the soldiers stood behind him in the mirror, not moving, not blinking, but stealing from him a tear apiece. Sokka knew he deserved to have them there, he knew he deserved to be stalked by the people he’d killed, but he wanted more than anything for them to go away. He wanted more than anything to be able to focus on his task without being stuck on his failures. Slowly, Sokka pressed two fingers to the open wound on his wrist. The warmth felt disgustingly nice.

“I’m so fucking sorry this happened.”

It would be a lie to say that Sokka never considered pushing the knife down deeper. Sometimes he wanted to turn it, to drag it down the other way along the opposite side of his arm and watch as his life dripped out of his skin. The only reason he’d resisted the urge so far was because he always had something to live for. When he started hurting himself after the war, there was always someone there for him. Always someone to talk to. But now he was in the middle of a war zone again and there was nothing he could do but drag the knife across his skin until there was nothing left to spill out of him.

“I’m so sorry for everything. Just leave me alone. Please.”

They didn’t move. Not one of the shadows, not one of the reflections. They stayed in front of him, hidden only by his loose hair and the tears that clouded his eyes. A sob escaped Sokka’s lips as his fingers curled around the edge of his desk, scratching at its surface, and scraping apart the last of his fingernails. He chewed them down to nothing ages ago. There was nothing left to destroy but his skin. Nothing left to cry over but the spirits of the dead that wouldn’t leave his side whenever he was left alone. Whenever he found himself sick to his stomach and aching to end it all.

“Please. Just let me be alone.”

If the only way out was to push the knife down deeper, maybe it _was_ what he should do. Sokka reached back down, two fingers still dripping with thick red pain as he lifted the handle of the blade. He turned his gaze to his left hand, squeezing his hand around the knife and twisting it to press against the inside of his left wrist. The back of his arm dripped on the desk but he didn’t so much as glance down to it. Sokka pulled his eyes shut, a tear escaping each eye as he took a deep breath and started to drag the blade down his arm. Just a minute longer. Just one more minute and he’d never have to fight again.

“Sokka?”

The moment he heard the voice calling to him, Sokka lurched backward; his hair whipping in the air and sticking to his tear-stained face. His knife went clattering to the ground and he reached down to grab it, only for a stabbing pain to attack his left leg. It was stupid that he was trying to cope by adding more pain when he had so much to deal with already. When half the days he couldn’t get out of bed and the other half, he could move only with his cane. He forced himself to do what he needed to regardless, dropping the knife down on his desk and dragging a heavy coat around his shoulders to cover himself before walking over to the entrance of the tent and poking his head outside.

“What?” he asked sharply, his voice breathier than he intended. It was stupid how worn out he got from one pathetic little task. From just a few small cuts across his wrist.

“I just came to let you know that dinner was ready,” said Katara, holding up her hands in defense. Her sleeves slipped down to reveal clean arms. Devoid of a single self-inflicted scar. It wasn’t fair. “But if you’re going to be such a sourpuss, then maybe I’ll just give your share to Appa.”

They didn’t want him. He had a poor attitude and no matter how hard he tried to act like everything was okay, his sporadic temper and irritable mood were getting in the way. Katara might have been joking then but that didn’t stop it from being true. That even if they did want him at the moment, they wouldn’t want him when they realized the standard they held him to was something he could never meet. That he was inadequate at everything they’d ever asked him to do. That he was nothing but a disappointment and a failure and there wasn’t a thing he could do to change it.

“Sorry, I just have to finish some things here,” said Sokka, glancing down to his covered arm. The fur burned against his open wound and he knew he was permanently staining it, but the other option was letting his sister know he’d intentionally mutilated himself. That wasn’t a hard decision to make. “I’ll meet up with you guys in a bit. Can you just let the others know I’m running late? I don’t want Dad to worry, I swear I haven’t been skipping meals on purpose.”

That was a lie. Sokka had been skipping meals as often and as willingly as he’d been skipping out on all his other simple forms of self-care. He hadn’t cut his hair in ages, he shaved maybe once every few days (both partly due to the fact that if he didn’t actively want to self-harm, he didn’t trust himself with the blade), and sleeping was hardly a possibility when he couldn’t close his eyes without being haunted by the faces of the bodies they pulled from the battlefields. Not that having his eyes open seemed to be a significantly better solution. At that point, he was suffering regardless.

“Yeah, sure, but…” Katara’s voice trailed off, her brow furrowing in concern. Sokka glanced down to his feet, adjusting his injured arm around his stomach, and hoping she assumed the issue to be with his shoulder. If she was going to scrutinize him, he wasn’t going to meet her gaze while she did it. “Are you okay, Sokka? You look a little sick.”

He _was_ a little sick. More than a little sick. More like he was ready to double over and throw up on their feet right then and there. His head was pounding, the world was spinning, and all he really wanted was to go back. Go back to the time when everything was okay. To the five years when there was no war, no battles, just a calm era of peace. Everything that Aang strove for and everything that Sokka sacrificed his childhood and his life to achieve. But it was gone. There was nothing he could do to turn back the clock, to bring back the peace, no matter how much he wished there were.

“I’m fine,” he assured his sister quickly, though he knew his tone sounded off. He could tell his posture was wonky as well, but again, all he could really do was hope that Katara assumed that stemmed from his bad leg and not his bleeding forearm. “Just go to dinner. I don’t want your food getting cold because you were standing here talking to me.”

“Okay.” Katara hesitated, barely starting to turn around before she looked back again. “Listen, Sokka, I know this isn’t easy, and if you need anything—”

“Just _go_ , Katara. I’ll be there in a bit.”

Despite how cruel his words came out, Sokka didn’t stop for a moment to care. The second Katara was gone, he dragged the tent shut and slid down, allowing the blanket to slip down his waist as he shoved his hands through his hair and yanked his knees up to his chest. He was a mess. He was pretty sure nobody had figured it out yet so he felt okay, at least for a while, but there was blood on his face, his leg, the floor, _everywhere_ he’d dropped his knife. It was getting out of control. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was spiraling.

No.

He already _had_ spiraled and was in far too deep to get himself out.

Sokka took a deep breath before trying to stand up again, the lightheadedness immediately taking over and sending him for a loop. He leaned forward on his knees, heart pounding, and squeezed his eyes shut tight. It was his fault. He cut himself too many times and let too many drops fall loose. If he were selfish, he would’ve admitted to Katara that he had a problem and he relapsed, but he wasn’t. He might have been stupid but he wasn’t cruel enough to drag her into his mess when she thought he was past his period of self-hatred. When she thought he kept his promise not to be mean to himself again.

Though he should’ve been concerned with getting himself cleaned up so he could go over to breakfast, Sokka couldn’t care less and only lazily wrapped a cloth around his forearm before turning back to his work. He had way too much to finish and not nearly enough time to do it in. Plus, it wasn’t like he even wanted to eat anyway. Sokka never ate regular meals unless he was forced to do it anymore. Not since they were made to go back into hiding. He tried for a while, but it made him too sick to his stomach. Everything did.

He wrapped his bleeding arm around his stomach as he leaned back over his maps and half-finished strategies, searching again for the best course of action. It was hard to determine which way would be the most effective for shutting everything down, but he had to try. People were counting on him. _Everyone_ was counting on him. His family, his friends, the colonies, the _world_. He sacrificed fucking _everything_ to save them once before and here they were, begging him to do it again. Begging him to fix everything because they couldn’t do it themselves.

Admittedly, Sokka was pretty great at planning and strategizing. He knew that. That was the reason Aang and Zuko thought to get him involved in the first place. But that didn’t suddenly make it any easier to be in the middle of a budding war. To watch as the Fire Nation colonies destroyed themselves over stupid and selfish disagreements. As they ruined the era of peace they all fought so hard for, that _Sokka_ fought so hard and sacrificed _everything_ for. He didn’t get to be a kid. He didn’t get to have a mom. He didn’t even get to _walk_ anymore because the injury from the airship made it nearly impossible without a cane even five years later.

“ _Fuck_.”

Sokka yanked his hand back suddenly, his eyes going wide when he realized his hand was covered in his own blood. He hadn’t even noticed he was holding it over his open wound until he squeezed down and the pain seared through his wrist. He took a deep breath, sliding back away from his papers to grab a towel from behind him. Cleaning up the blood was never fun, especially when he had to go back and scrub it off the desk the best he could, but there was no way out of it. Either he left the blood there for everyone to find, he let himself bleed out and left _himself_ for everyone to find, or he went ahead and fixed nothing and left everyone to find both. That didn’t feel like an option. If he was going to end it, he at least didn’t want anyone to have to find him.

Despite how much his hands were shaking and how much he had to fight with his overgrown hair to properly see, Sokka managed to get his arm adequately cleaned and wrapped. Every touch to it stung, but never as badly as when he’d let the blade split his skin. Never as badly as the mental traumas and pain which drove him to that place initially. Still, it was painful, and Sokka allowed himself a few moments to get past the pressure from the bandage on his arm before he dragged a shirt over his head and yanked the sleeves down in his palms. He couldn’t risk letting anyone see what he’d done, even if he deserved it.

Once his wounds were finally taken care of and his blood was scrubbed away, Sokka rose to his feet and took a deep breath before walking outside his tent. He hated the campsite they were stuck in. He hated how much it reminded him of his time back in the Hundred Year War. When him and his friends were constantly hiding out and on the run. It wasn’t technically a war going on then, but it felt like it. It felt like it when Suki suggested they all go into hiding. It felt like it when Aang and Zuko asked Sokka to come and help them because they were desperate. It felt like it when his whole family got dragged along despite the Water Tribe having nothing to do with the conflict.

Though he knew he should go meet his friends for dinner like he’d promised Katara, just standing there and staring at the campsite made Sokka feel sick so he opted for a walk instead. He went for a lot of walks those days, just for time away from everything to help him think about his plans, and every walk ended up taking him to the same place. Every walk, regardless of which direction he started in or where he intended to go, ended at the edge of the cliff they were hiding near. Just past the side of the trees that shaded them and over the world of emptiness and endless height below him.

“Hey.”

Sokka blinked when he heard Zuko’s voice behind him but didn’t tear his gaze from the rocky ledge. His legs were hanging over the cliff, dangling and aching to slide just a little farther. Honestly, Sokka had no intention of jumping. Absolutely not. But sometimes, when it really hurt, he liked to look down there and think about the possibility that he could. Remind himself that if the battles became too much, he could end it all in a second. He forced himself to smile as he turned back to look at Zuko, waiting for him to say something and begging the universe to make it nice. He didn’t, only sitting down at Sokka’s side and pulling his knees into a cross-legged position.

“Hi,” said Sokka lamely, knowing full well how stupid he sounded. He tugged his sleeves down again, squeezing the edge of the fabric in his hands. “You feeling any better?”

The reason he was asking was, of course, because Zuko’s arm was still wrapped up even several days later. He hadn’t been too seriously injured and thankfully the assassination attempt was a failure, but Zuko did come out of it with a broken arm and more than a few scratches and bruises. They were healing well, thanks to Katara, but he still wasn’t allowed to move his arm much while the bone was still broken and he had a few scrapes left on his jaw and his hand that were a little too painful to look at. Sokka turned his gaze back to his feet as they swung over the edge. It was easier than looking at the injuries.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” But his arm was still hanging in a sling and his hand was pressed against his stomach stiffly. Sokka lifted his arms to help Zuko get comfortable, as he was clearly not used to functioning with less support on one side. His heart fluttered a little when they touched, but he didn’t let himself focus on that feeling. He didn’t deserve what they’d been building before it all went downhill again. “It still burns a little if I move it too much, but Katara said it’s healing well, so yeah. I’m not too worried about it. What about you? You all right, Sokka?”

No. He wasn’t. Sokka was stuck in a loop of despising himself more than anything and feeling guilty that he did. Knowing he needed to put aside his personal issues and deal with everything that was happening, but not knowing how to do that. Not knowing how or even _if_ he would be able to make it through the situation. There were a thousand things Sokka needed to take care of, a thousand levels of quality that he needed to reach, and he didn’t think he could do any of it. He’d already gone through a war and it was looking like he’d have to live through one again. It wasn’t fair.

“Of course.” Sokka nodded quickly, hoping he looked as confused as he wanted to. As if he didn’t understand why Zuko was asking even though he knew full well that he looked like absolute shit. “I was just thinking about our plans. Or my plans, I guess. I’m still trying to figure out the best way to approach this whole situation. The more I think about it, the more I feel like there’s no way out of it, at least not without more casualties. It’s just too personal of an issue for everyone. They won’t listen.”

“I know it feels like that, but you have to keep an open mind.” Zuko reached out for Sokka’s hand, but he shifted away. It was him who nearly got Zuko killed in the first place. It was him who was distracting and stole his eye. He didn’t deserve to touch the Fire Lord anymore. “These people’s opinions are strong but they’re not set in stone. You’re an incredible strategist, Sokka. Whatever happens, I know you’re going to get through to them. You always do.”

That wasn’t true. Maybe Zuko believed that Sokka was better than he really was for some messed up reason, because he falsely convinced everyone to trust him, but he wasn’t. Sokka didn’t have an idea how he was supposed to fix anything, let alone _everything_. He didn’t know how he was supposed to convince two entire nations to change their minds when he couldn’t even convince _himself_ that he was worth it. That he shouldn’t just lean forward and let himself fall. The only reason he hadn’t done it already was because it wasn’t fair to everyone else. Because the pressure reached a point where it didn’t just cripple him, it kept him going. It held him in a state of unrest and adrenaline he couldn’t escape from.

“I guess,” was all Sokka could say. Because it wasn’t true. He couldn’t believe it, no matter how hard he tried. “Thanks, Zuko.”

The kiss on his temple hurt more than it should’ve. The hand on his cheek burned in a way he couldn’t explain. The problem wasn’t that he didn’t like it, but that he liked it far too much. That he craved the love, comfort, and feeling of security that Zuko’s hand on his cheek gave him, but he knew he didn’t deserve it. He knew he didn’t deserve to let himself indulge in the nice movements. Didn’t deserve to turn and kiss him even if that was all he wanted to do. Sokka looked away, his gaze spinning to stare back at the cliff beneath his dangling feet. He ached to push himself just a little more forward. He ached to let his legs slide over the edge. But he didn’t because he couldn’t.

After the obvious rejection, Sokka thought for sure that Zuko would just get up and walk away, but he wasn’t that daft. Instead, he turned beside Sokka, bouncing his broken arm a little against his stomach and dropping his good hand into his lap. Sokka bit down on his lip as he glanced over at Zuko, not turning his head but stealing a glance out of the corner of his eye. He used to do that a lot before everything went to shit. It was one of those little motions that got Zuko distracted in the first place. One of those stupid, pathetic little motions that gave the assassins the perfect opportunity to strike.

“You sure you’re okay?” There was something in Zuko’s tone that was different from usual. It wasn’t aggressive, sarcastic, or condescending in the least. He just sounded concerned, gentle, and like all he really cared about was knowing that Sokka was all right. He didn’t respond with more than a shrug. “Sokka, I know things have been weird recently, but you know that you can talk to me, right? I’m still your friend.”

“Yeah.” Sokka nodded quickly, shoving a hand through his hair. It was the arm he hadn’t just cut, of course. He couldn’t move that one more than aninch without it tingling at the very least. “I know.”

“Then why aren’t you doing it?”

Because he didn’t deserve the relief. He didn’t deserve to let Zuko in—to let _anyone_ in—and drag them down even further with his insignificant little issues. He tried to talk to his family about it once, to explain to them how much he hated himself and how hard it was just to go about his days stuck in a body with stupid fucking Sokka, but he barely explained his anxiety before they looked so emotional he forced himself to stop. He didn’t tell them about his issues with food. He didn’t tell them about his issues with the knife. He just accepted it when they compared his examples to his struggles with public speaking. Sokka had problems with anxiety and that was all they needed to know. That was all he could tell them without the guilt making him want to explode.

“I’m just worried about the plans.” Business. That was the one subject Sokka could talk about without feeling like he was pushing his problems on anyone else, because he knew others shared the same concerns. Still, he reached up to chew on his thumb, stress overwhelming his senses. “You know how many casualties we’ve had already? Not just on our side with the mediators, but… people are dying out there, Zuko, and all I can think about is how many more are next.”

“I understand what you mean,” said Zuko. He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze shifting down to his broken arm. “I’ve probably mentioned it at some point in the last five years, but that’s how I got my scar, you know? How I got banished too. My father wanted to sacrifice a whole division of men and I spoke out against him. I was _thirteen_ and I couldn’t imagine so many people dying. At some point on the ship, I convinced myself I would get over it, but I never did. My crew died and I mourned them. Soldiers die here and I mourn them too. I know how hard it is, but death is inevitable, Sokka. All we can do is try our best not to think about it and remind ourselves it’s not our fault.”

“What if it is our fault?” Sokka blurted out the words too quickly and he squeezed down on his left forearm as a punishment. That was a dead giveaway to Zuko that he was struggling with internal feelings of self-hatred and not a general worry about the circumstances. He swallowed hard, trying to find a way to make it sound more impersonal. “I mean, not _our_ fault, but like— these are our plans, right? We’re the ones telling these people what to do. We’re the ones sending them out into the battlefields not knowing whether they’ll come back. In a way, we _are_ responsible for what happens because when our soldiers die, they die doing what we told them.”

“You can’t think of it like that.” He almost laughed. As if there was any way he could stop himself. “You’re not telling them to walk to their deaths, Sokka. You’re giving them a strategy that could go south depending on what happens with the people. That’s not anyone’s fault. Shit happens. Everyone who takes orders from us is well aware of what could happen. They know the risks of being in their positions and they do it anyway. To blame yourself for that isn’t fair. To blame any of us for that isn’t fair. You just have to keep trying and keep moving on. Whatever happens, happens. We may not have signed up for another war but we sure as shit signed up to end it; whatever it takes.”

“Whatever it takes.”

Sokka continued to stare out in the distance when Zuko gave his hand a squeeze and slowly rose to his feet. He continued to swing his legs over the edge and do whatever he could to convince himself not to fall when Zuko walked away. He hoped that if he watched the skyline long enough, something would happen. That there were ideas drifting in the clouds and one of them had to fall and hit him if he just waited. If he just kicked his good leg back and forth and chewed on his nails until there was nothing left but skin and blood.

They didn’t.

He had to figure it out on his own but he couldn’t and he was crumbling. Sokka was already cracked, broken, and each step took him further in the wrong direction. Each decision he made was worse and ripped and tore at his wounds until there was barely anything left. Until his arm was splitting open, his head was pounding with every step, and the very action of thinking about his responsibilities and self-care made him want to hurl. It was pathetic. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He wasn’t the victim anymore. He needed to get over himself and get his head back in the game.

Sokka didn’t talk to anyone else who tried to find him that day, despite his whole family attempting to convince him to eat dinner. He lamely accepted a plate of food so they wouldn’t be too worried about him, but nothing else before returning to his tent. He needed to finalize his plans. He needed to find a way for them to get into the villages and convince everyone on both sides to just let it go. That they were overreacting and the only way to bring peace was to come to an agreement. A compromise. Something other than the raging war they were on the brink of. The dangerous territories they’d created and the world so awful that after five years of peace, Sokka was forced to go back into hiding. They all were.

It must’ve been half past midnight when Sokka finally gave into the urges. When he glared down at the tear-stained papers beneath him and chose to rise to his feet. Sokka sneaked around the best he could, doing everything to make sure none of the watch caught him sliding into the storeroom. He didn’t want dinner. He didn’t even want food. But he did want a distraction and that was what it gave him. Energy and something else to focus his mind on. Even if it wasn’t healthy, even if it had everyone asking what animal got into their food at night, it was the one thing he had left that made him feel better and that didn’t leave him with hideous scars on his arms. So, despite every rational part of his mind begging him not to do it, he ate.

And when he inevitably got sick not twenty minutes after the binge, he allowed himself a moment to stay out in the forest and cry. If nothing else, at least the trees would never judge him for his fears.


	2. The Courage to Continue

The more he thought about it, the more Sokka realized it was not only infuriating, but absolutely ridiculous that nobody else seemed bothered by what was happening.

He was the only one who felt like he was choking hiding out in that camp. The only one who hated having to strategize and prepare disguises before they left, even if they were just going to buy some fucking fruit. The only one who despised the fact that they were stuck in the middle of humid-ass nowhere forest and they weren’t able to leave. That they were buried somewhere in the Earth Kingdom so remote he couldn’t even remember where. It didn’t matter that all his loved ones were with him, helping to fight for peace. After everything he grew up in, the _idea_ of another war was too much.

“…and then we’ll find you some berries, and— oh. Hey, Sokka.”

Despite hearing Aang’s voice, Sokka didn’t sit up. He was lying on Appa’s tail, his eyes closed and a hand tucked beneath his head. His mouth was lined with fur and he’d already sneezed half a dozen times but it was worth it for the comfort that big smelly friend gave him. The reminder that, at least once before, he’d made it through war and there was every chance he could do it again. Sokka wasn’t really surprised when Aang walked up regardless of being ignored, still chattering to Momo on his shoulders. He was probably there for a similar reason; just wanting to relax or take a nap with his best friend. That best friend being Appa, of course—Sokka wasn’t good enough for anyone anymore.

“Hey.” Sokka threw one hand in the air to wave when he realized Aang wasn’t going away, not moving his other arm from where it lay over his eyes. He was fine. Totally fine. He was just tired from working so hard to prevent another war from breaking out. “Sorry, I just needed to get away from everything for a bit. I’ll head back to the camp so you and Momo can… what exactly are you and Momo doing?”

“Same thing you’re doing.” Despite knowing full well that Aang and Momo were not fantasizing about throwing themselves off a cliff, Sokka kept his mouth shut. The problem with not moving the arm over his eyes was that he couldn’t see when Aang flopped down on Appa’s tail beside him, only feeling the fur showering his skin and Momo’s tail thumping against his face. He sighed and reached up to scratch Momo’s head, still not shifting his arm. “I was just going to lie down for a bit. I’ve been talking to Katara about the peace treaties for _hours_.”

“At least you have someone you can talk to.”

The words left his mouth before he had the chance to truly consider them. Before he could stop to think and realize that what he was saying was stupid and selfish because obviously, everyone was there at the camp and fully willing to talk to him. _He_ was the reason he didn’t have anyone to talk to, and blaming it on the people he cared about, even unintentionally, wasn’t fair. Sokka was making things worse when he wasn’t even trying. He was messing everything up when all he wanted was for it all to be okay again.

“You can talk to me,” said Aang. It wasn’t what Sokka was expecting him to say. He felt like he should be told off or called out for saying something stupid. For being an idiot and acting like everyone else was the problem when it was him. _He_ was the broken cog in their machine. “Or Katara, your dad, Toph, Suki, Zuko—we’re all here if you need anything, Sokka. I know it’s not easy being in this position again, believe me, but we have each other’s backs. You’ve been there taking care of all of us this whole time and if you need someone to take care of you, we’re here. We’re always here.”

Sokka only nodded, which was difficult beneath his sliced arm and the tail around his wrist. He understood that everyone was there for him, that they always had been and always would be. He just didn’t understand _why_. He couldn’t make sense of why he, an insignificant idiot who barely helped in one war and couldn’t stop a second, deserved even one ounce of love. But he wouldn’t say that aloud. He knew how much it would hurt if he questioned his friends’ loyalties, so he didn’t. He kept his mouth shut. He kept the truth locked inside where it couldn’t harm anyone else.

“Thanks, Aang,” Sokka told him, forcing the words out after far too long a silence. “I’ll let you know if I need anything, okay?”

“Okay.” He could hear the faint smile in Aang’s tone, but he still couldn’t get himself to shift his arm to meet his friend’s gaze. “Anyway, I was just thinking of taking Momo out to look for more berries if you want to come for a walk. It might help you clear your head. It’s fine if you don’t want to, but I think Momo’s been getting into the food again and I want to get him something to see if it helps. I’m worried we haven’t been bringing enough for him.”

That was why Sokka hadn’t moved his arm yet. Because the second Aang mentioned the food, he felt like throwing up (again) and the only thing that stopped him were the tears he squeezed from his eyelids (again). His sleeve absorbed all the moisture, hiding it from Aang’s sight and keeping him from realizing that Sokka was falling apart. That Aang and Zuko trusted him with an incredibly important task, arguably one of the most important in the entire world, and he wasn’t mentally fit enough to handle it. He wasn’t mentally fit enough to handle anything.

“No, that’s okay.” For one thing, he couldn’t look at the food without feeling guilty that he was the one who kept binging a fourth of their supplies in one night, and for another, he seriously couldn’t go for a walk regardless of whether he actually wanted to. “Leg hurts. Thanks for the offer, though. Maybe another time.”

“All right.” Thankfully, Aang didn’t seem upset by the rejection. At least one person didn’t mind being pushed away. “When was the last time you had Katara look at it? Maybe there’s something she could—”

It was only when Aang cut himself off so suddenly that Sokka finally pulled his arm from his eyes. The light attacked him in an instant, clouding his vision but not obstructing it so much that he couldn’t see Bato walking toward them. In an instant, Sokka sat up, ignoring the swirling feeling of lightheadedness as he stumbled to his fucked-up feet. There was a serious look in Bato’s eyes, an expression far too grim on his face, and Sokka’s heart raced so quickly he wanted to hurl just thinking about what he had to say. Was it already time for them to get news back from the troops? It hadn’t felt like long enough had passed but on the other hand, Sokka could barely keep track of the days anymore.

Of course, the moment Bato started talking, Sokka wished his daydreaming had been a reality. He wished that he could turn back the clock and walk right off that cliff instead of ever trying a new set of plans again. Instead of ever risking anyone’s lives when he knew he wasn’t clever enough to figure a way out himself. Given that was literally impossible, Sokka chose to settle for listening as Bato explained everything that happened. As he talked about how the plans— _Sokka’s_ plans—took an unexpected turn. There was a fight.

People died.

“Sokka.”

He knew that someone was talking to him, that there was a hand on his back, but it wasn’t helping. Sokka heaved again when the hand squeezed his shoulder, gently rubbing him and trying to be reassuring. In response, the only thing Sokka could do was cough. He couldn’t explain why his stomach hurt so badly. Why his head was pounding and he couldn’t stand back up. It took a several minutes but somehow, Sokka managed to stop gasping for breath long enough to relax. He squeezed his eyes shut as a pair of arms pulled him in, holding him close to their chest. It was a warm embrace. Comforting. Sokka let himself take a deep breath, trying to kill the last of the bubbles in his stomach.

“Take a deep breath.” Bato. It was Bato holding him. Knowing that made him feel a tiny bit better. “Sokka, breathe. You’re all right.”

Except he wasn’t. Despite his effort, Sokka couldn’t get himself to fully relax. His lungs still burned from the heaving, his head throbbing as he leaned into Bato’s chest. Panic attacks weren’t uncommon since the first casualties but he usually did his best not to let anyone see it happen. He hid alone and did what he could to be quiet until it passed. He didn’t stand there in the open, throwing up from the guilt, wheezing because he couldn’t even think enough to fully calm his breaths. He didn’t even know how much time had passed since Bato gave him the news, since he apparently ran off, and that was far from his biggest concern. It wasn’t like telling time was easy those days.

“Sorry,” Sokka grumbled, still refusing to open his eyes. When he did that, it was time for a full reset. Time to stand up and act like nothing happened and he was the strong person he was supposed to be. “I’m fine.”

“You’re having a panic attack.” There was nothing about Bato’s voice that sounded disappointed but Sokka couldn’t stop himself from feeling like that anyway. Like he was pathetic and weak and undeserving of the comforting embrace he was held in. “It’s all right. I know it’s overwhelming. Just keep breathing.”

It wasn’t that easy. Every inhale made Sokka’s throat go drier, and every exhale made his entire chest feel like it was burning. His lungs were tight, his head still pounding, and all he could do was wheeze. The only thing stopping him from spiraling off the edge was Bato’s embrace, grounding him and comforting him as his heart tried to pump out of his skin. Sokka struggled for air, only really making progress when a fresh set of arms pulled him forward and held him close. Still, he couldn’t convince himself to open his eyes, but it was easier to relax with his ear pressed against the gentle heartbeat and his body moving along with the steady breaths.

“It’s not your fault.” His dad’s gentle tone was vastly overshadowed by his words. Sokka didn’t believe it in the least. How could he? It was his idea. The whole thing was his idea. “Sokka, listen to me. It’s okay. It’s not your fault. It’s not. Nobody blames you. You’re okay. You’re fine. Just breathe. Keep breathing.”

“I know.” Sokka was still struggling with every breath, but he felt like he had to defend himself. Like he had no choice but to say something so his family wouldn’t worry. “Not my fault. Just— People— People died. P—Processing it.”

“Okay. That’s good you don’t blame yourself. You…”

Sokka barely registered a word his dad and Bato said after that and didn’t get anything from Aang except what he thought was an offer to join him for mediation to help process everything later. Of course, Sokka only shook his head and trudged off because everything they all said was a lie. It was his fault. Everything was his fault. His friends helped with the plan but at its core, it was his. All of it was his and everyone knew that. They knew he was responsible. They gave him dirty stares when he passed by on the way back to his tent, whispered to each other asking why the fuck he was still allowed to work on plans, and what kind of favoritism was involved in it all. Sokka shielded himself from them and squeezed his eyes and hands shut when the spirits blurred in the crowd.

He didn’t even know how much time passed after that and he couldn’t be bothered to care. Sokka scribbled away at his plans, struggling through each and every movement. He was fine whenever he was napping but the second he got back to work, he cracked again and he didn’t stop. He was the reason people died and he couldn’t stop thinking about it in every word he wrote. Sokka was the brains behind the plan. Sokka was the glue holding the entire operation together. He broke more than one brush in frustration, tore apart more hair ties than he could count, and tugged at his loose strands until they were all tangled, tickling the back of his neck, and he wanted to pull it right out.

Rather than treating himself to a haircut or finding someone to open up to, Sokka let himself suffer. He propped his leg up while he worked but the pillows weren’t enough so he cut his arm to distract from that pain. He cut his arm to keep himself from thinking about how stupid and pathetic he was. He cut his arm to stop every damn little doubt that attacked his mind and told him to stop trying. He cut his arm until it was red and he was doubled over on his stupid table willing himself not to cry because he couldn’t let anyone know. He couldn’t let anyone hear him sobbing and begging for it all to stop.

Not while all he had to show as failure.

Despite how much he hated it, Sokka kept at the same thing day after day after day. He worked on his plans. He worked on his schedules. He did everything he could to keep everyone else on track and even when his leg hurt like shit, he went out and he trained because he needed to. He didn’t have a choice anymore, not while war was imminent. Not while the colonies were burning themselves down. Sokka dragged the covers back over his head. Maybe he had to deal with everything eventually, but he didn’t have to do it yet. He could sleep for a few more minutes.

Except he couldn’t because every time he closed his eyes, he was shocked by an awful dream. Airships crashing around him, small spaces closing him in, villages burning down, people screaming and he couldn’t help them—it didn’t matter what it was, but that it was _always_ something. It always something that hurt, that made him thrash around in his sleep, that woke him up with his face covered in sweat and tears and he could never remember why. Because he barely ever remembered the dreams as more than a blur, much like the days as they went by since the war started up again. All he knew was that it hurt, just like the pathetic attempts at dates he left on the pages of his work.

“Wake up.” The voice was rough but the tone was gentle, a hand shaking his shoulder and gently urging him to turn over. His face was warm and wet, and he could only hope it was all sweat and no tears. The fingers moved to brush it off, carefully stroking the edge of his jawline. “Sokka, hey. Wake up. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Zuko kept one hand on his cheek, his fingers curling around Sokka’s chin and his thumb brushing away his tears. It was nice. Soft. Sokka wanted to stay where he was, but the urge to move was greater. He liked Zuko. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he wasn’t good enough. That Zuko was the Fire Lord, arguably one of the greatest benders on the planet, and Sokka was just… Sokka. Broken, pained, _useless_ Sokka. Even his strategies didn’t work anymore. It didn’t matter how many people he spoke to, how many different ways he tried, either the peace was never made or someone ended up dead. None of it was enough and it was only getting them closer to an all-out fucking war.

“Sorry.” Sokka slid away as soon as he was able to register the situation, shoving his own hands over his cheeks. His leg throbbed as he shifted and his arms gave a stabbing pain through each and every mark, but he refused to show it on his face. It might have been easier if he did; if he made Zuko hate him the way he already should’ve. “I’m fine. I— I know I’m safe. Sorry. I don’t even remember what I was dreaming about. Probably something stupid. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Again, Sokka shifted back when Zuko reached out for him, and this time, Zuko’s face fell. He was starting to understand. Good. Sokka didn’t want to say it aloud. “I just came to check on you since you weren’t at breakfast but it’s fine if you need more rest. You’ve been doing a lot for us these past few weeks.”

He blinked. It _was_ really light outside already. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

“Sokka, listen to me. Just because we haven’t managed to resolve the conflict yet doesn’t mean you’ve done nothing. You’re working insanely hard. We never would’ve made the progress we have if it weren’t for your strategies and ideas. I know you’re really hard on yourself, but I’m literally begging you. Please don’t discredit yourself for that.”

“I’m not discrediting myself, I’m just accepting the fact that we’re going to war again because none of my plans have worked.”

“ _No_.” Zuko reached out a hand to take Sokka’s, but Sokka yanked away, dragging his arms into himself despite how much it stung to move them that quickly. “You’re doing the best you can. We all are. This is not your fault. Sokka. Look at me. This is not your fault. Please tell me you know this isn’t your fault.”

“I— I know.” _…that it’s all my fault_. “Thanks, Zuko.”

“Anytime. Seriously.”

He moved like he wanted to reach out, like he wanted to touch Sokka or hold him close, but he didn’t. Instead, he just forced a smile and rose to his feet, clearly recognizing Sokka’s repeated pulling away and choosing not to engage anymore. Sokka’s heart pounded in his chest as Zuko mumbled some form of an apology and invited him to a late breakfast before walking out of the tent, leaving Sokka on his own again. He told himself he would get right back to work, that everything would be okay, but he knew that wasn’t true and he knew that every word he repeated was just another lie to try and ease his suffering mind.

Sokka indulged a little more as he worked on his next set of plans, ignoring Zuko’s invitation for food. It wasn’t an entirely intentional motion, just an absent habit that scratched at the cloth around his arms and unwrapped them enough for his fingers to get to work. He was bleeding again by the time he finished his outline and he didn’t have it in him to do anything about it. He barely had the energy to crawl back into bed after a long several hours of work and the occasional conversation to have others check in on his plans. It was hard doing the same thing day after day. Each time he woke up, he had to face his old reality. It wasn’t new, it wasn’t fresh, it was the same misery he went through every damn day when he was a kid.

The fact that no one else seemed to care that they’d reverted was one of the things that caused Sokka to struggle the most. That he was the only one who trudged through every day like he might not make it to the next. The only one who cried himself to sleep because he wanted it all to end. The only one who hated himself a little more each day. His friends all kept laughing when they weren’t making plans, his dad and the other adults kept smiling and doing their best to keep the younger ones on track, and Sokka just sat there. He didn’t smile. He rarely joked. He just suffered and cut himself and begged the spirits to let it end.

But apparently the spirits still had something against him because they didn’t listen to a word he said.

Sokka’s relationship with food was not healthy. It had never been healthy. He always had a habit of gorging himself when he could but it was never as bad as that. It was never as bad as sitting on the floor of the tent with all their supplies after everyone else went to sleep and eating anything he could because it made him feel better. Because the jerky tasted like home and the berries reminded him of when spending time with Zuko put happy butterflies in his belly. Now the only butterflies he got were the ones that felt guilty for hurting Zuko because he wasn’t good enough. The ones that swirled with anxiety because he couldn’t leave his tent without everyone staring at him in either disgust or anticipation. The ones that begged him to stop putting food in his mouth because he _knew_ he was going to be sick again but he couldn’t do it.

The only reason Sokka put down his snacks was because he heard it when Aang walked in. He saw it when his friend pushed past the fabric and slowly walked over, sliding down at Sokka’s side. Thankfully, there was no obvious trace that Sokka had eaten half his weight in snacks, so he played it off like the jerky he set beside him was the only thing he’d had. Like he’d just had a late night and he sneaked in there to grab something to keep his energy up. Or because he hadn’t shown up for any meals in the past week. There was every chance Aang had noticed that too, even if neither of them wanted to talk about it.

“Hey, Sokka.” It was stupid how comforting two words could be. How gentle Aang’s tone was and how he always made Sokka feel like everything could be okay. There was a reason the spirits chose him to be the Avatar. There was no one else who could talk people down the way he did. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen you eating in like two weeks.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Sokka shrugged, trying to play it off like it was nothing. He lowered the bag of jerky into his lap, hoping Aang couldn’t see through him too clearly. “I’ve been eating, I have, just… on a weird schedule, I guess. Everything has been thrown off. Think I’m still running on South Pole time.”

He wasn’t running on South Pole time. He was running on an inconsistent, painfully self-destructive schedule that took him further down the road to death every single day. Sokka never ate meals at a regular time, he snacked randomly and binged his brains out when he was stressed. He slept whenever he fell asleep and woke when his body decided he’d had enough rest or someone woke him from a pathetic nightmare. He cut himself as part of his daily routine and it didn’t matter how much it hurt or how lightheaded he got because it was familiar. It was comforting. It made him feel like there was still some kind of structure in his pathetic fucking life.

“That’s okay,” said Aang, reaching a hand out to squeeze Sokka’s shoulder. He resisted the urge to wince. He knew it wasn’t a good idea to cut that high. “We just miss you. The real you, I mean. You know, we see business Sokka all the time when we’re working on things, but you never come hang out with us anymore. We try to joke around at meals and stuff but it’s not the same. I’m not saying you _have_ to come back and spend time with us but if you want to… there’s always a seat at the table for you.”

But there wasn’t. That was the biggest reason Sokka never wanted to eat with them. Because he couldn’t fucking sit down like he was supposed to. Everyone else sat and ate on the floor like they were normal and Sokka had to sit on a chair or a stool at the least because his leg throbbed if he didn’t. Because sitting down to eat with other people always turned into a big event of making sure he was comfortable and staring at him when all he wanted was to feel better. All he wanted was for everyone to leave him alone because it felt worse to have them all staring at him and fussing over him than it did to have to sit on his bad leg.

“I know.” Sokka nodded, tearing his gaze away from his left leg. He didn’t mean to stare at it. Sometimes that was just where his eyes fell. “I’ll try to spend more time with you guys. I just… I have a lot to work on with the strategies and everything, you know? There’s nothing for you guys to help or compare with if I don’t make it in the first place.”

“That’s okay, though. Zuko and I have been working on a lot of things too. And it’s not like we haven’t made big progress already, you know? Like, I know that last plan didn’t go so great, but so many people keep telling us about how well most of the plans are going. We won over that whole village last week, right? That was great, wasn’t it? When everyone was thanking us and all that? I mean, it was a _little_ embarrassing, but I thought it was really nice that they…”

The more Aang talked, the more desperate Sokka became to stuff his face with the last of the jerky. He wanted to relate to what he was saying, to smile and laugh along with him at the goofy anecdotes and kind things that people had said, but he couldn’t. Nobody said anything to him. He got a few weird looks, heard some whispers in the background, but nobody thanked him. Nobody celebrated his successes. Nobody even acknowledged he _existed_ unless they wanted to talk to him about his failures and how to potentially correct them. Maybe that was his fault. Maybe it was because he hid away in his tent. Maybe it was because he didn’t do well with strangers. But that didn’t make it any easier to listen to Aang ramble.

“…you okay? Sokka?” Aang’s voice broke him from his thoughts and he blinked several times, nodding quickly as he pushed his hands over his eyes. Sokka didn’t even know where the tears were coming from anymore. It was another curse from the spirits to make him look as pathetic as possible. “Hey, I know it hasn’t been easy, especially with the casualties, but you just have to try and look on the bright side of things. I hate that we can’t save everyone, it keeps me up more nights than I can count, but we’re so close to— Sokka? Sokka, are you listening?”

Casualties.

The moment he said the word, it was all Sokka could think about. All he could see. Logically, Sokka knew that whatever he was looking at was nothing more than delusions or hallucinations brought on by the fact that he couldn’t tell when the last time he slept as and his stomach was about ready to explode. Emotionally, his heart was pounding faster than he could ever remember it doing before and all he wanted was to get out. To get the fuck away from the dead eyes staring back at him from the other side of the tent. He stumbled to his feet as fast as he could but Aang’s quick reflexes were the only thing that truly stopped him from falling over.

“Sorry.” Sokka’s chest rose and fell painfully, Aang’s hands still clinging to his left arm. More than anything, Sokka wanted to pull away, but he wouldn’t. Not when he knew that would make it too obvious that he’d ripped himself to shreds. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to— I’m sorry. I’m just tired. I’ll talk to you at the meeting tomorrow, okay?”

“Wait, Sokka, you’re still not coming to breakfast?” It was how disappointed Aang sounded that made Sokka stop. That made him shrug as noncommittally as he could because he had no idea how he would be feeling in the morning. “It’s okay if you’re not, just… make sure you’re taking care of yourself, okay? These strategies aren’t more important than you.”

It took every ounce of Sokka’s willpower not to laugh in his face right then and there. Not to roll his eyes and shout back because _obviously_ the plans were more important than Sokka. Sokka was nothing. He was an idiot with annoyingly long hair and arms that almost bled through his shirt. The strategies were meant to save countless lives and end a potential war between two nations. They were everything. He was nothing. To even suggest that Sokka put himself first was one of the most ignorant things that Aang had ever said, as much as it pained Sokka to admit it. There was nobody who should ever put Sokka first, especially above something as big as what they were fighting for.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He was dick. An absolute, unhinged dick. Sokka turned before he made it back to his tent, ducking off into the woods somewhere that he could sit and not be found. Where he could vomit and not be heard. Where he could cut himself and let the blood run dry. It hurt. Everything hurt. But that didn’t mean it was fair to bring anyone else into it. That didn’t mean it was fair to act like Aang was doing something wrong when all he’d done was embrace his successes and try his best to make sure his friend was okay. It hurt too much to admit he was anything but, regardless of how he knew it to be true.


	3. Please, Don't Leave

His tears burned more than the blood seeping from his wound. Each breath he took closed his chest tighter, each movement he made hurt somewhere, and yet he still couldn’t stop dragging the knife down his arm. He couldn’t stop the tears from flowing out his eyes as he ripped apart every last vein he could reach. It was over. Sokka looked straight into the face of the dead man in front of him, allowing another two tears to roll down his cheeks as he silently apologized for what he’d done. For his failure. For everything. He couldn’t hurt anyone else again.

“Sokka?”

The voices were louder than anything else those days. It didn’t matter how hard he tried to ignore them, how much he begged for them to go away. The face of every dead solider kept coming back to him, screaming at him, clawing at his skin, and begging him to end it like he’d ended it for them. He knew it wasn’t fair to put all the blame on himself but he didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t know how he was supposed to forgive himself after everything he’d done so he pressed the knife down one more time and watched as it slashed the last of his vital skin.

“Sokka, are you awake?”

Up until she put the hand on his shoulder, Sokka honestly didn’t know whether he was or not, and definitely being awake then didn’t help at all in determining whether he already had been. Sokka glanced down to his left arm, surprised to see it was still covered by his sleeve and not burning in the least. He brushed a hand over his nose and closed his eyes for a moment as he accepted that whatever happened, he hadn’t truly cried. He hadn’t truly broken. At least, not more than he already had.

“Yeah, sorry.” Sokka’s gaze flickered to the paper he was leaning over. The date in the corner didn’t make sense. He had to be at least a week off in his numbers, unless his sense of time was even more broken than he thought. “I was just… yeah. Did you need something?”

“I didn’t _need_ anything,” started Katara, “but I was wondering if you maybe wanted to go to the market with me? You don’t have to, but I just feel like you haven’t been out much recently, and I…”

She was right. Sokka rarely so much as came out of his tent those days. It wasn’t just because of how he hated himself or how many times he’d failed, but because he had to face his friends, his family, _Zuko_ , and that was too much to deal with. So, instead of doing that, he stayed in his tent day after day, working on the same plans over and over again. He rarely bothered with a shirt like he had that day, generally choosing to cover his arms with the already stained blanket along with loose-fitting pants that put less strain on his leg. It ached when he moved too much, he realized, so it was easier to use it only when he needed to practice. Only when he had to defend himself or prepare for the times when he did.

Unfortunately, Sokka was not simply allowed to live in utter isolation, and his friends and family consistently pulled stunts like that to guilt him out whenever they noticed his absence (which wasn’t as often as one might think because he wasn’t as important as that either). Sometimes they just brought him something to eat or checked in to be sure that he was okay—the answer was always “no”, but what he said was always “yes”—and other times, they all but forced him to get dressed and pulled him out to do something with one or more of them at a time. Sokka cared about them all too much to ever refuse, and that was the only reason he found himself at the market that day.

It was Katara who pulled the coat around his shoulders and forced the cane into his hands. Katara who redid his hair by herself and latched onto his upper arm until he followed her out of the camp. Katara who tried to get him to smile and joked that he was just being grumpy because she dragged him away from his work when in all honesty, that was all he really wanted. An excuse to get away from the war. A net to catch him so he wouldn’t keep sinking any further. He swallowed hard as they stepped into the village, knowing full well they’d be in trouble if they were recognized. All he could do was force himself to relax. It was stupid to feel so much anxiety over something so small. It was stupid to feel so much anxiety at all.

“I don’t care.” His answer was in response to a question of which fruit to buy, which got Sokka to admit the simplified truth if only in his head. He didn’t care what they ate because all of it made him sick. He didn’t care what she bought because if worse came to worst, he would leave his rations for the others. He looked away from the fruit stand to glare at his shoes, hoping beyond anything that Katara was nearly done. “Did you get what we needed yet?”

“We’ve been here for five minutes. What do you think?” Her tone was joking but it struck Sokka to the core. It wasn’t his fault that he felt like they were more at risk every second they spent in that village. Every moment they were in the market, being stared down by people who knew they were protecting the enemy. Protecting Zuko. “Lighten up, Sokka. It’s the first time you’ve been able to get out in ages. You should be in a great mood right now.”

To that, all Sokka wanted to ask was how in the _fuck_ he was supposed to be in a good mood when they were literally on the edge of a war. When the colonies were destroying themselves and the Earth Kingdom was about to call for the heads of every damn Fire Nation noble. When someone—masked and therefore covering from which side they hailed—had already tried to assassinate Zuko and if they ever came out of hiding, were bound to do it again. It wasn’t possible for him to feel any positive emotions with all that hanging over his head. It wasn’t possible for him to smile until it was over.

Katara must’ve understood because she didn’t say anything else. She just went on to the next stand, getting everything they needed to take care of the others back at the camp. He winced when they stopped for more remedies. It was bad enough knowing she couldn’t fully heal Sokka’s leg; he didn’t even want to _think_ about what might happen to Zuko’s arm. The thought that someone else would have to suffer that horrible chronic pain because of him was too much. Sokka shook the thought from his mind just in time to react to the rock which flew past his head.

It was a coincidence.

They weren’t recognized or attacked, just caught in the crossfire. Caught in the same sort of screaming, raging battle that Sokka once believed was behind them. He barely moved fast enough to get Katara to the ground before fire shot right where she stood, burning a nearby building. Sokka wanted to get out of there immediately, to drag his sister far away from everything because she was already burned and could only get worse, but he couldn’t. Katara resisted his pleading, instead rushing to help the people of the village who had no part in the fight.

It wasn’t until half the buildings in the street were smashed and up in flames when she finally let herself get dragged away, if only to find the others. If only to look for help because they couldn’t save everyone on their own. Compared to everyone in the villages, to the earth and fire shooting everywhere, Sokka and Katara were nothing. And compared to his sister, putting out fires left and right and challenging people as they ran by, Sokka was nothing. He was just as if not more helpless than the non-bender citizens who watched and fled as the battle grew stronger. As the fighting and the deaths increased.

Sokka wanted to go back to the village to help after they got Aang and the others, but they wouldn’t let him. They said his leg was too messed up because of the way he was so obviously limping. It would’ve been easier to let him go. Probably better too. Sokka might have been useless but his mental state didn’t truly snap its last straw until that moment. Until he was sobbing into a pillow on the floor of his tent because the world was crumbling around him and he couldn’t even fight back. When he was digging his nails into his arms and ripping open the scabs that finally started to heal. When he pretended to be asleep when someone came by because he lacked the energy to look them in the eye.

“Hey. I brought you dinner.”

The words didn’t help at all in encouraging him to lift his head. It didn’t stop his chest from burning or the tears from rolling down his cheeks and soaking into the pillow beneath him. He didn’t want dinner but he didn’t know how to say that. He didn’t know how to refuse when he knew his dad was only trying to help. Trying to keep him alive. Sokka didn’t _want_ to be alive anymore. He didn’t want to eat or talk or go fucking shopping, he just wanted to stay with his face in his pillow and wait for the moment he finally suffocated. The moment he finally escaped the prison he was living in.

“I’m not hungry,” mumbled Sokka. On the bright side, he wasn’t lying for once. He felt sick as anything and he knew that eating wouldn’t do anything but make it worse. “Can you just go, please? I don’t— I don’t want to eat anything.”

“I know, bud, but you have to have something. Come on.” Hakoda slid a hand around Sokka’s arm, gently nudging him to a seated position. Sokka rubbed his face off on his pillow before he sat up, hoping his dad wouldn’t notice the bloodshot color of his eyes. Just looking at the food made him sick. Either he couldn’t start or he couldn’t stop; there was no longer an in between. “Hey, look at me. I know it was a hard day, and I know you wanted to help, but you did the best you could. It’s okay that you can’t—”

“They almost got her, Dad. The firebenders almost— I barely got her out of the way in time and I— she got burned, and we— it’s my— it’s my fault. I wasn’t— I didn’t— I shouldn’t have—”

It wasn’t until the words actually left his mouth when Sokka realized the sickness in his stomach was guilt. He knew the villages weren’t safe and he didn’t even try to stop Katara from going. He was too wrapped up in his own stupid thoughts and insecurities to bother really watching her back. He almost lost her the same way he lost his mother because he was too pathetic to help. He was too stupid and distracted and the full force of it didn’t hit until he was suddenly wrapped in his dad’s arms, resisting the urge to cry, and blaming his emotions on exhaustion when asked. There was a chance that was true, after all. He’d been so exhausted recently, it wasn’t a stretch to cite that as the cause.

“Whatever happened was not your fault.” Hakoda sounded terrified too, like Katara hadn’t mentioned what went down and it wasn’t until then when he started to fully understand it. When he started to understand the risks they were taking by making themselves a part of that fight. “Sokka, listen to me. I don’t know what happened out there, but it was not— Katara, hey. Come in here for a minute.”

“No, you don’t have to—” The second Katara stepped into the tent, Sokka’s brimming tears changed from those of exhaustion to those of frustration. “I’m fine, Dad, I’m just— _stop._ Just leave me _alone_.”

The reassurance was worse than nothing at all because he didn’t know how to accept it. He didn’t know if he _could_ accept it and that just started a whole new cycle of guilt because he felt like he was forcing his family to care for him when he didn’t deserve it. Not that it mattered. Sokka sat there the whole time anyway. He sat there as they told him he was amazing and tried his best. As they lied through their teeth and told him he was somehow supposed to be proud of himself just like they were already. He knew it wasn’t true. That nobody really gave a shit and nobody was proud of him because he failed everything he set out to do. He pushed them away when they were trying to help and then cried back into his pillow like he deserved to feel bad about it.

But regardless of how shitty or pathetic Sokka was acting, everything stayed the same. Every morning he woke up and worked on the same strategies, every afternoon he refused an offer for this or that, and every evening he stared in the mirror at the disgusting face looking back at him and mutilated his arm with the knife. It was on a walk in the morning when he decided the blade wasn’t enough anymore and scraped his knuckles against a rock instead. It brought a new sensation, a burning sensation, and caused it to ache every time he moved his fingers. It was good. It was what he deserved. He ducked back into his tent before anyone noticed he was missing and slid down in front of his work.

Sokka hid the date with the blood on the backs of his hands. It couldn’t have been that long already.

Generally, Sokka preferred staying in his tent and hiding out but it was days like that when he wished he did something else. When he wished he stepped outside just for long enough that no one would have to worry about him. It was always the worst when someone walked into his tent, terrified because he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days. But what was the point? Why should he bother speaking to them if he didn’t have anything to say? He had no plans, no ideas, just a list of days that didn’t make sense because they couldn’t have been fighting for that long. That many days couldn’t have blurred together the way it felt like they had.

“Hi.” He didn’t look up when he heard the voice in the doorway. He didn’t have to. Only one person would come in with a single word in that ridiculously charming, stupidly awkward tone. “Is it okay if we talk?”

Sokka hesitated before nodding, glancing up to the man in front of him. His face was beautiful and his eyes were almost glowing despite how sad they appeared when they met Sokka’s gaze. He quickly shifted away, hating himself for hurting Zuko and hating Zuko for continuing to care for him regardless. Zuko deserved better. They all deserved better and the fact that they were all clinging to Sokka after everything he did was ridiculous. He’d even go so far as to call it stupid. They were wasting time, energy, and resources on him, and it wasn’t fair to anyone. He wasn’t good enough for anyone. He scratched at the bandage on his sleeve.

“I just… uh… I wanted to apologize, I guess.” Zuko’s eyes immediately turned to Sokka’s still red knuckles, and he quickly tugged his sleeves over those that were exposed. He could play it off as a training incident. “I’m sorry that this happened. I know things have taken a really bad turn and I’m just— I’m really, really sorry I got you involved. Aang and I never should’ve asked the Water Tribe for help. This isn’t your fight.”

“It _is_ my fight.” It took a lot of effort to resist the urge to pick at the peeling skin around his knuckles. Sokka shifted his hands beneath his knees, focusing on chewing his lip between thoughts instead. “Just because it doesn’t technically involve us doesn’t mean I don’t want to end it. We’ve all gone through a hundred years of war already, Zuko. It’s not fair for anyone to have to go through it again. There are— There are kids out there, you know? And whether or not this objectively involves my tribe, I’m not going to leave them. I’m not going to let them grow up the same way I did.”

“I understand. I just wanted to make sure you were okay, I guess. It’s not easy to— I know there are children out there suffering but you suffered too. I just want you to know that if it ever gets to be too much, you are under no obligation to—”

“Yes. I am.”

“You are so fucking stubborn.” There was something in Zuko’s tone that Sokka couldn’t quite place. Something that sounded not annoyed, but pleased. He leaned forward, his right hand resting beside Sokka’s outer thigh. Sokka couldn’t stop himself from following Zuko’s fingers, his gaze lifting to meet his lovely eyes. “That’s what I like about you, Sokka. You’re strong, you’re smart, and I don’t get to say it much anymore, but you are so, _so_ pretty. So fucking pretty.”

Zuko tasted like spices and the sun on a warm summer day. He smelled like smoke and the kind of hard work that made sweat seem pleasant. He felt like a warm blanket, like home, like the embrace that Sokka always needed. Against everything his mind was telling him, Sokka accepted the hand on his thigh, the tongue between his lips, and returned a hand to stroke the hair tickling his cheek. He liked twisting a finger around Zuko’s locks, tasting the traces of hot candy in his breath, and listening to the gentle heartbeat that fluttered with their movements but grounded Sokka in a way nothing else ever could. He lifted his other hand up, squeezed it around Zuko’s shirt, let his lips linger for one more passionate moment, and pushed him back to replace the space that belonged between them.

Neither of them said a word. Zuko pulled his hair back behind his ear and Sokka dragged a finger over the stubble on his own cheek, the phantom kisses reminding him of everything they could never have. For a long moment, they stayed in their uncomfortable silence, until Zuko slid a hand forward and Sokka made things even worse. He pulled away quickly, wrapping both arms around his stomach as he bit down on his lip and stared at his knees. It didn’t make sense why he had to be the bad guy. It didn’t make sense why Zuko still liked him after everything he’d done. After everyone he’d killed.

“I’m sorry,” said Zuko quietly, tugging at his hair again. It was entirely loose around his shoulders. He must’ve come to see Sokka before he’d even finished getting ready. An utter waste of time. “I understand if you don’t want to— I just thought that— I mean, I— before this all went down, you and I, we were— we kept— _that_ — and I thought— I really thought that maybe it could turn into something more.”

What hurt the most was that Sokka thought so too. He didn’t know how it happened, but he knew that it did. He knew that it wasn’t all just in Zuko’s head, it was real. After the war, Zuko broke it off with Mai pretty fast. They were still best friends, just like Sokka and Suki after they drifted apart, but they weren’t together like that. They didn’t steal glances at each other like Zuko did for Sokka. They didn’t take any opportunity to initiate physical contact like Sokka did for Zuko. They didn’t play with each other’s hair, lay on each other’s laps, or awkwardly kiss when no one was looking. Never flirted in their letters, never kissed each other’s jaws and shoulders, never made up a bullshit excuse to go visit each other just to hold hands. They never did any of the stupid things that Sokka shouldn’t have engaged in.

“No.” Pushing him away was the right thing to do. Even if it hurt, even if it made him sick, it was the right thing to do because staying around Sokka wouldn’t do anything but cause more pain for Zuko. For both of them. For everyone. “It couldn’t have. We were being stupid, Zuko. I really like you, I do, but we’re not— you’re the _Fire Lord_ , and I’m just— I’m just Sokka, you know? I— I’m just a disabled non-bender from the Water Tribe. It never would’ve worked.”

That was the truth of it. It didn’t matter if anyone knew what they’d been doing in private or not, every time Sokka went out alone with Zuko, he felt out of place. Stupid. He was standing beside the Fire Lord, one of the most powerful people on the entire planet, and he was walking around with a cane. Twenty years old and he had a cane. He couldn’t count the amount of jokes he’d heard about it. The weird looks he’d gotten. It didn’t matter if Zuko bragged about how it happened, how he fucked up his leg, people still looked at Sokka like he was weak. Pathetic. Unworthy of spending any time with the Fire Lord, let alone being his friend, his _lover_.

“That’s not true.” The only reason Sokka didn’t immediately pull away again was because Zuko’s touch somehow dulled the pain. It stopped the scrapes on his knuckles from burning, the carpal tunnel in his wrist from throbbing. Still, the guilt wouldn’t leave his chest. He shouldn’t get to hold anyone’s hand anymore. He didn’t deserve it. “Sokka, please. I know I should’ve said something sooner, but I think you and I both know how we felt by the time all this shit started. And I know we never talked about it or addressed it like we should’ve but after all those times we held hands and we kissed and that night we were working late in my room and we—”

“Stop it, Zuko. Just— Just stop it. I can’t deal with this right now.” Immediately after he spoke, the guilt pounded in Sokka’s chest, but there was no way for him to take it back. No way for him to turn around and act like he said nothing when what he’d done was practically beg Zuko to go away. To leave him alone and dismiss everything they’d done. The look on the Fire Lord’s face hurt and all Sokka could do was his best to dull the pain. “I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t like you, I just— I really think we should just be friends. The timing isn’t right and even if it were, we couldn’t— it would never work. I’m really sorry.”

The fact that he couldn’t tell whether it was the truth or whether it was his low self-esteem forcing him to say that made it even harder. He spoke the words, set the boundaries, and he wasn’t even convinced that it was true. After all, they had been doing really well together. They did all those things Zuko said and more. They had some of the best moments of Sokka’s life hiding out in little corners and kissing, even if they pretended afterward that nothing went down. Even if this was technically their first official conversation because until death was potentially imminent, neither of them wanted or were brave enough to really talk about it. Maybe that was a sign nothing was meant to happen.

“Why?” Again, Zuko’s tone was difficult to decipher, as was how Sokka was meant to answer. He chose to keep his mouth shut. It was easier than having to explain to Zuko that he was pathetic and didn’t deserve anyone, let alone the Fire Lord himself. “Please tell me it’s not because of you, Sokka. Please. It’s okay if you don’t feel that way about me but I can’t stand knowing that you think you’re not good enough for me. You know I’m just as awkward as you are, right? Both of us were so bad at flirting. And you’re so much smarter than me, more charming than me, handsomer than me—”

“Don’t.”

It was one word but it was powerful. His tone was sharp, aggressive, _pleading_ , and it worked. Zuko snapped his mouth shut, pulling away when he realized the word was directed at his actions more than what he said. Smoke swirled around his fingertips as he wet his lips and nodded, mumbling something as he wrapped his left arm around his stomach and rose to his feet. Part of Sokka ached for him to stop, to stay in the tent, to kiss him again, and never leave his side. A larger part of him wanted to kick himself for thinking he deserved it and so he said nothing as Zuko left. He said nothing as he glanced up at the entrance, tugged his shirt over his head, and peeled back the bandages. The blade fell on his skin like water, the drops running down his arm and his hand as clearer ones made their way across his cheeks, dripping off the edge of his chin.

He deserved it. He deserved every damn second of the pain and to think he didn’t was to think he was better and he wasn’t. He was pathetic. Sokka convinced Zuko that he was handsome when his arms were, at that point, more cuts than skin. When his cuticles were ripped down to nothing and the bags under his bloodshot eyes hadn’t left in what couldn’t have been months. He wasn’t handsome, he was an exhausted mess of scars and chronic pain. He wasn’t charming, he was a socially inept fool who had a panic attack every time he tried to stand in front of a crowd or talk to someone who intimidated him. He wasn’t smart, he was an idiot who tried again and again to create plans, only for more people to die every week.

Each time Sokka thought of a new plan, a new way to bring peace to the nations without losing more colonies, it backfired. People were already displaced all over, dying indirectly by his hand, and it was too much. Hakoda tried to help with the plans, Bato tried to help with the plans, Aang and Zuko tried to help with the plans, and it was never enough. Even Suki tried to help with the plans but she ended up just holding Sokka while he sobbed because three failures in one day was too much for his stupidly fragile metal state and maybe he didn’t deserve it, but he wanted that fucking hug. He wanted the comfort. He wanted someone telling him that everything in his mind was a lie and he was a better person than he thought.

Sokka didn’t deserve it, but he wanted it, and he let himself indulge just that once.

Besides, it wasn’t like he didn’t give himself all the punishments he needed. Each time his mind started to drift off, a poke. Each time he failed to finish his plans, a scratch. Each time he caught himself wanting to break, a cut. It wasn’t sustainable but it helped. He wasn’t okay but no one had to know that. Sokka let himself lose a few tears when it was time to fall asleep and only then when he could help it. That was the time when his mind was allowed to do whatever it wanted. The time when he wouldn’t stop himself from breaking because he had nothing else to do that day and in the morning, he could reset, which he did. The morning was always a clean slate. Over and over again until he didn’t know the date anymore.

Each morning, he did the same thing as the last. He mentally berated himself when he did something he deemed wrong. He turned away from the meals he was brought because he couldn’t imagine stomaching them. It was the same thing he did day after day ever since they want back into hiding, ever since they first referred to it as a war. It was a loop he couldn’t get himself out of, a cycle of suffering that seemed to have no escape. More than anything, Sokka wanted to stop. He wanted to quit hurting himself, to break the disgusting mindset he’d fallen into, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t get away from the fighting, the stress, the _war_ , and until he could do that, he was stuck.

Sokka went along with it whenever people asked him to come to a meeting. He put on a smile and stood there to talk to people, then he ate or stressed himself sick and crashed for hours on his own. He faced the families of the people he’d killed and spoke to them about the strategies as if there was nothing wrong, then he went back to his tent and stared in the mirror at the spirits of their loved ones. At the tears on his cheeks, the blood on his arms, and every one of the deep bags beneath his eyes. No one ever mentioned how tired he looked and that was the only reason Sokka refrained from it all himself. Nobody really cared. Not unless someone else got hurt too. If it was just Sokka, it was nothing. Because that was what it all boiled down to, wasn’t it? As an asset in war, Sokka was something, even if he hated it.

But in life, as a person, as _Sokka_ , he was nothing.

Nothing.


	4. My Thoughts Might Kill Me

“Please leave me alone.”

It didn’t matter how many times Sokka begged them, how hard he tried to make things right, the spirits wouldn’t leave. All he wanted was a few moments of peace, some space and silence to figure things out, and he couldn’t have that. He didn’t know how long he’d been awake for. Didn’t know anything except his head was pounding and every time he blinked, another person glared at him like it would be better if he were dead. Sokka kept the blade close to his wrist but he didn’t press down because he was trying to stop. He _needed_ to stop, no matter how much better it made him feel to let the dirty blood leak free.

“I’m doing everything I can to make this right.”

Except he wasn’t, was he? Sokka was still failing at every corner, still binging after everyone went to sleep, still mutilating his arms, still standing at the edge of the cliff—he was deathly close to taking the coward’s way out and he knew that if he did that, it would only doom him to an eternity of further suffering. An eternity where he couldn’t get away from the spirits if he tried. He tugged at the edges of his hair with one hand, staring at his reflection and blinking when the tears rolled down his cheeks. He didn’t blame himself for crying anymore. It wasn’t mental weakness, it was a physical reaction to how badly he’d been treating his body the last several weeks.

“Just go _away_.”

Given how physically poor of a state he’d been in, Sokka’s rational mind was fully aware of the fact that the spirits he was seeing could’ve been hallucinations. They probably were hallucinations. But that didn’t stop them from hurting him. That didn’t stop them from glaring at him every time he turned around as if he could somehow bring them back from the dead. Sokka shoved another hand through his hair, his eyes wide and bloodshot as the tears escaped them. He was pathetic. Weak. Exhausted. He slid the knife across to the back of his wrist, peeling back the bandages with two fingers and pressing the blade against his skin.

“ _Fucking leave me alone!_ ”

It was the fact that they didn’t react to him wanting to cut himself that made Sokka more pissed than anything else. That the shadows did nothing but stare at him, waiting, forcing an audience on him when there was nothing he wanted more than to be alone. He slowly pressed down on the blade, glaring into the mirror at the bags beneath his eyes as the painfully warm drops rolled down his cheeks. He deserved it. He deserved the sick feeling in his stomach, the burning on his skin, the throbbing on the back of his arm, he deserved all of it. Every last second of the pain.

“Sokka?”

He didn’t drop the knife but he pulled it from his wrist, his hands shaking worse as he looked up into the mirror. There was no reason to bother fixing his hair, his outfit, or the rivers on his cheeks. Toph never cared what he looked like and she never would. Not that it made it any less embarrassing to know that she’d heard him screaming to himself and probably a good deal of sobbing too. Sokka twisted the blade a little and eased it back against his skin. He wasn’t going to cut himself again, not while Toph was standing right there, but he wasn’t ready to leave the sensation entirely behind either. He needed the closeness, the reassurance that as soon as she was gone, he could finish his work.

“Sokka, please.” Her tone was bordering on terrified and it only made Sokka’s heart pound even faster. It was his fault. She was freaking out because of him. _For_ him. He couldn’t begin to conceive of why. “I know what you’re doing.”

And that was it. By the time someone called him out on it, Sokka’s arms were covered in scabs, scars, and open wounds. He tried to ignore Toph, grabbing his blanket off the back of his chair and hiding his arm and the blade beneath it. The whole inside was brown and red, crusted with blood and stained with his tears, but he couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it. He couldn’t be bothered to do anything for himself until the war was over. Until it was done and he was safe and he knew that his family would be okay. That no one would ever have to hurt the way he hurt again.

“Don’t you dare ignore me.” It was the fear in Toph’s voice that encouraged Sokka to do exactly that. He turned his head deeper down, gripping the handle of his knife and wrapping his nearly bleeding arm around his stomach. She could see what he was doing. He knew that. He shifted his feet from the floor. It hurt to move his leg from where it was positioned, to twist it that way, but it was the only thing he could do. If he was on the wooden chair, Toph couldn’t see him as well. His movements would start to blur. “Sokka, you’re not fooling me. Please. I’m worried about you.”

Sokka didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to respond when the only thing he could think was, “You shouldn’t be.” He didn’t deserve her concern. He didn’t deserve a damn thing and yet, they wouldn’t stop trying to give it to him. They wouldn’t just leave him alone and let him suffer in silence like he damn well deserved to. There was a small part of him that really appreciated that and a much larger part that thought it would be a lot easier if they did leave. If they did all just walk away and let him suffer the way he needed to.

“If you’re trying to choke me with silence, it’s not going to work.” Toph walked right up to him and slammed one hand down on his desk, getting in the way of his papers and preventing him from focusing on anything else. He stared at her hand in front of him. It was easier than looking to her face and it wasn’t like she cared anyway. “Sokka, _listen to me_. Why are you acting like this? You’re not eating anything we give you, I know you’re not, and you’re moving like you’re in so much pain. You’re doing it again. I know you are. It’s okay. Just talk to me, please. Or if you don’t want to do that, you could tell your dad or Katara, just… someone. _Please_.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” snapped Sokka, wincing when he turned to glare at her. It was useless. A stupid attempt. “I’m _fine_ , Toph. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I’m just trying to get these damn plans done and I can’t do that when you’re on top of me all the time.”

“And _we_ can’t do anything when you won’t even admit you’re not okay. You know what I’m talking about. Don’t act like you’re stupid.”

He didn’t respond because he did know what she was talking about. He knew that he relapsed and it was easily the worse he’d ever had. He knew that he cut himself at least once a day and he cried himself to sleep not just from the pain but from how much he hated existing. How much he hated having to sit there and fight through another war when he already spent fifteen years stuck in one. After it stole his entire life, his family, his _innocence_. It wasn’t fair that he made it through all that trauma, all that pain, only for the world to start crashing all around him again.

“I know it’s wrong,” Sokka started quietly, carefully pressing the edge of the blade into the back of his wrist, “but it’s the only thing keeping me sane.”

“No,” said Toph, her tone harsh but even. She placed a hand on his shoulder and he flinched, not expecting her to touch him especially when he’d intentionally put himself in a less visible place. “It’s an addiction and you’re feeding it and that’s making it worse. I know it feels like it’s helping, but it’s not. You’re hurting yourself.”

“That’s kind of the point.”

“Give me the knife, Sokka.”

There was no way she knew. There was no way she could feel the way the metal actively tore into his skin, ripping at old bandages and soaking in the liquid that warmed his wrist. All she knew was that he had a knife somewhere. That he’d started doing it again and she wanted him to stop. Sokka carefully pulled the blade from his arm brushing it against the blanket over his shoulders before he handed it to Toph. She was right. He was starting to feel faint and it was almost definitely because he hadn’t eaten and he was losing too much blood. Even if he stopped for just a little bit, just a day or so to convince her that he had, he needed to do it.

But Toph didn’t stop. Her feet shifted when she took the knife, her eyes widening and her fingers moving to feel around the blade. Sokka’s heart pounded and not because of how dangerously close Toph was to cutting herself too. He should’ve been worried about that, worried about her hands slipping and her slicing off her fingertips, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t worried about anything but the fact that she was pressing her thumb against the side of the still warm knife, sliding down it in a way that she said she knew. She knew. She _knew. She knew_.

“Please.” Toph’s voice was even quieter than Sokka’s own, her eyes welling with tears. “Please tell me you were just holding it.”

He couldn’t. He wet his lip, searching for a way to stretch the truth without hurting her or making things worse. Toph was blaming herself. She was blaming herself for him being in pain and it was all his fault for letting her be around him when he was in that state. Sokka resolved to keep his tent shut from that point forward. There was no reason to drag anyone else into his bullshit. To give them more to deal with when they were already in such a fucking awful place. Sokka might have been suffering but that was no reason to make them suffer too.

“I was,” said Sokka, knowing full well that his tone wasn’t convincing but hoping it was at least better than he thought. “I wasn’t— I wasn’t doing it. I— I won’t— I won’t do it again. I’m sorry.”

The hug Toph gave him was unfairly reassuring and caused him to let out an almost inhuman sob. He clung to her back for longer than he should’ve, allowing himself to indulge in something that didn’t inflict lasting pain for once. He felt guilty when it was over but the only things that truly ached were his leg and his wrist in the place he’d just cut it. The moment Toph was gone, confirming that she wouldn’t be returning his knife and that she’d be checking on him again to make sure he was okay and didn’t have any more contraband, Sokka fell forward on his desk and finally let himself go.

He buried himself in his arms and his blanket to keep anyone from hearing his sobs. It hurt. His stomach ached, his head was pounding, and he couldn’t remember the last time his heart had raced so fast; not to mention the stabbing pain in his wrist and the aching in his leg and both upper arms. Maybe Toph was right. Maybe he _did_ need to stop before he reached a point he couldn’t come back from. A point where he lost his remaining ability to write, to move, to be conscious enough to be able to plan.

That mindset worked for three days and then he found himself standing on the edge of the cliff again.

Sokka still had no intention of falling. At least, he didn’t think he had any intention of falling. The rocks below him did look nice, inviting, but it wasn’t the right way to go out. There was every chance he’d be killed in battle sometime soon, so he might as well wait for that to happen instead. At least then he could go out looking like a hero, even if he felt like anything but. Even if inside, he was crumbling and cracking to the point where he felt like there was barely anything left. If there was a Sokka once who knew how to deal with war, he didn’t exist anymore. And if there was a Sokka once who could even overcome it, he was long since dead.

It was the rain that put the water on his cheeks that day. That’s what he told himself. It wasn’t because he was ages away from the camp, far from everyone who cared, thinking about how he might just fall and let himself die. It was because it was drizzling out and the cold wind was blowing in his eyes. It wasn’t because he was in pain and dreaming of the short time when he was safe, when the world wasn’t crumbling around him and every damn day didn’t ache. It was because he was tired, starving, wasting away because he couldn’t even remember how to care for himself anymore.

All he could think about was that it was his fault it kept going. That if he designed the right plans, figured out how to end the fighting, it could all be over. It could all be over but not until then. Not until he did the thing that seemed impossible because no matter how many times he tried to write the plans, no matter how many times he talked it over with the others, it never worked. The Fire Nation didn’t cooperate. The Earth Kingdom didn’t cooperate. It didn’t matter who or which side was resisting, it was always _someone_ and that made it impossible to move forward.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

The fact that he didn’t even have to consciously stop himself from looking up made the whole thing more painful. Instead of having to resist, to keep himself from turning to face the person he almost fell in love with, he— no. The person he _did_ fall in love with. That was the problem. Even just sending each other letters, they flirted too much, grew too close. It wasn’t meant to be. For one thing, he was fucking Fire Nation, and for another, the second they were in the same room long enough to do something about their feelings, Zuko was almost assassinated. That was a pretty damn clear-cut sign that the universe didn’t want them to happen.

“Bato is looking for you,” Zuko went on, making no move to get closer. Sokka didn’t blame him. The last few times he’d tried, all he got was rejection. Obviously, he didn’t want to put himself through it again. “Said he has some thoughts for your last strategy or something. I remembered you saying coming out here helped you think. Thought it might be a good idea to check.”

“Yeah.” Sokka nodded, reaching up to chew on his thumbnail. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He turned to walk away but stopped suddenly, looking back to where Sokka stood. Zuko’s arm was still wrapped up, still being supported by the cloth around his shoulder, and just looking at it made Sokka want to hurl because of the guilt. “It’s a long walk over here. Did you not bring your cane?”

No, he didn’t. For just one day he wanted to pretend that he could manage without it. That he didn’t need the added support just to manage a measly little walk, even if he did. He was about to fall over and the fact that he almost wanted to was the only reason he hadn’t sat. There was every chance he might kill himself by accident just struggling to stand there and he was fine with it. Not that he was about to tell Zuko all of that because he didn’t need to be dealing with Sokka’s shit when his entire nation was at war. So, instead of elaborating, Sokka only shook his head. The truth. Simple, but effective.

“Here.” Zuko held out his good hand, but Sokka didn’t so much as look at his face. He stared at the soft fingers, aching for their touch but refusing to indulge himself. He didn’t deserve it. He knew better than to touch things that weren’t his to have. “Sokka, please. Just walk back with me, okay? I could use the company. It’s been a long day.”

Logically, Sokka knew full well that Zuko was only saying that to convince Sokka to go with him, but emotionally, it was enough of an excuse for him to accept. Sokka all but collapsed into Zuko’s arms when he took a step forward, stumbling so badly he had to wrap his whole arm around Zuko despite how much the contact hurt. He hoped he wasn’t being too obvious about it. Letting anyone see that he’d gone back to hurting himself, especially after what happened with Toph, was one of the worst plans in the world. Not that it was easy to hide with how damn far they had to walk back to the camp.

“Your leg okay?”

“Yeah.” Sokka nodded briskly, though that wasn’t true nor half of what was bothering him. It was his fault the rest of it hurt. He inflicted the wounds on himself, so there was no space for him to complain. “I’m fine, I just— I used it too much today, I think. It’s stupid. It shouldn’t even hurt anymore. It’s been five fucking years.”

“It’s chronic pain,” said Zuko dryly, his tone laced with something Sokka couldn’t explain. “You can’t blame yourself for that.”

“I’m not blaming myself, I’m just pointing out the fact that regardless, it’s pathetic and I should’ve been able to recover from it by now.”

“See, but that sounds a lot like you blaming yourself. It’s _chronic_ , Sokka. That has nothing to do with you being weak or pathetic or anything like that. I know you want it to feel better, believe me, I do, but acting like it’s your fault isn’t going to help anything.”

“How would you know?” snapped Sokka, knowing full well that he was overstepping his boundaries. Immediately, the look on Zuko’s beautiful face dropped, but the guilt didn’t stop Sokka from finishing his thought. “You shatter your leg in seven places and never tell us about it?”

“I have a fucking burn scar covering half my face.” Zuko stopped dead in his tracks, glaring over to Sokka. They were tense because of what he’d done. It was his fault again. He was losing one of his best friends and it was all his fucking fault. “I can’t see out of that eye, I can’t hear out of that side, and the nerves are so fucked it hurts if something even brushes against it. Not to even mention my stomach and those severed nerves. So, yeah. I know.”

And just like that, Sokka felt like an ass again. Compared to Zuko’s situation, he was basically fine. He had a little limp and sometimes his leg hurt but he could just put hot towels on it and it helped ease the pain. Zuko couldn’t put _anything_ on his face or else it made it worse. He was in a constant state of suffering because of unspeakable abuse and Sokka was complaining about damage he’d inflicted himself. It was pathetic. _He_ was pathetic. Sokka kept his mouth shut the entire way back to the camp. Opening it only made things worse. He stopped Zuko from immediately running off regardless.

“I’m sorry,” Sokka whispered, one hand around Zuko’s forearm. The Fire Lord barely blinked, his gaze shifting to watch Sokka’s fingers. “I didn’t know.”

Zuko opened his mouth to say something, probably to shout at him or say that it didn’t matter and he shouldn’t have been so whiny about his problems in the first place, but he didn’t get the chance to finish. He went silent again when Bato walked up to them, not so much as waving to Sokka when he handed him off to the older man. Bato said something to Zuko and Zuko did say something back but Sokka didn’t register a word of it. He didn’t register anything but the way Zuko’s hands opened and closed angrily, how his face fell with disappointment and his fingers lifted to brush his long hair back as if he were anxious. It was because of Sokka. It was all because of Sokka.

He somehow managed to talk to Bato like he was meant to and they went over all his plans. They figured out that regardless of what he’d tried that time, regardless of how they twisted it, Sokka had failed again. He fucked up a critical piece in his treaty and it was written in a way that the Fire Nation would never respect. Not to mention his handwriting was so fucked up and blurred with tears that Bato couldn’t even read half of the words on his scroll. It was stupid. _He_ was stupid. He thought he came up with at least a decent plan that time but they couldn’t even salvage what he had. He couldn’t do anything with himself.

 _He couldn’t do anything_.

Though he knew that Bato said something to him, tried to reassure him about a matter he couldn’t remember, Sokka couldn’t hear the words over how loud the voices were behind him. He was losing his mind. Bato didn’t see anything but somehow, all Sokka could hear was the screaming from the dead soldiers that filled the rest of the tent. The glares looking down at him, the hands reaching for his skin and begging him to open it up again; it all hurt more than he could explain. It was louder than anything else and he couldn’t even speak up over it. Sokka shoved his hands over his ears, his fingers tickling the loose hairs around the back of his neck as a hand landed on his knee.

“Sokka.” He knew full well that it was Bato who was holding his knee, who was begging him to relax, but he couldn’t. People died and they were going to keep dying as long as he couldn’t get the plans right. How was he supposed to be okay with that? “Sokka, breathe. Sokka. _Sokka_. Koda!”

He wasn’t even crying. For once, he wasn’t even crying, he was just hyperventilating and quietly begging the spirits to leave him alone. But there were no spirits, were there? Because Bato had been there the entire time and he didn’t see them. Hakoda was there pulling Sokka into his chest and he didn’t see them. They weren’t real, they were hallucinations from Sokka’s horrible lack of self-care and he knew that but he was too far gone to fully acknowledge it. He was too far gone to do anything but wheeze when his dad’s arms wrapped around him and his fingers tried to pull Sokka’s hands from his ears. He couldn’t open his eyes. He wouldn’t.

“What happened?”

“I mentioned the casualties,” answered Bato quickly, “and he just panicked. I don’t know. It’s the same thing that happened in the woods a few weeks ago, when Aang had to come find you for us.”

“Okay.” Hakoda placed his hands on either side of Sokka’s face again, pushing away the hair that managed to fall on his cheeks. It really needed to be cut, not that he was allowed to have a knife anymore according to Toph. “Hey, Sokka, look at me. You have to breathe, okay? It’s all right. It’s just a panic attack.”

That was the worst thing they always said. It was _just_ a panic attack. It was _just_ his entire body freaking out on him and refusing to listen to a thing he asked it to do. Saying it was _just_ a panic attack made it feel like he should be able to stop it and he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but squeeze his eyes shut tighter and slide his hands back up to cover his ears when the screams reentered his head. It wasn’t real. That was what he needed to tell himself over and over again. It wasn’t real. It was him. It was all just in his head. Everything was in his head. It was his fault. He was panicking because of his own stupid overreaction. It was his fault. _Everything was his fault_.

He must’ve made some terrible sound trying to shake himself out of it, because that got Bato and Hakoda on some other spiel that Sokka couldn’t even focus on. Not until they started rubbing his back and saying reassuring things until he was able to stand, at which point they half carried, half walked him to get something to eat. Sokka waved a hand to shoo them away when they tried to hand him an actual plate, refusing even the water. He shook his head, pulling his arms into himself and squeezing his eyes shut again. It was stupid. They lifted his leg for him so he’d be comfortable, gave him way more hugs than he’d ever deserved, and wanted to force feed him like a child. He was an adult and he was acting like a baby.

“Sokka, come on.” He shook his head again when his dad spoke, gently nudging his chin to try and get him to look up. It didn’t work. He wasn’t willing to move. “Please just try to eat something, bud. No one’s seen you have anything in over a week.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not eating,” Sokka mumbled. “Ate last night.”

“You weren’t at dinner.”

“Late dinner. Everyone was asleep.”

It technically wasn’t a lie. He did eat the night before and everyone else was asleep while it happened. But the reason everyone else was asleep was because he didn’t want them to see him. He didn’t want anyone to know that his only form of sustenance those days came from binging while he sobbed and purging three-fourths of it before he fell asleep. Sokka shoved the dish away when they placed it down in front of him, blinking once and brushing off the hand his dad slid on his shoulder.

“Listen, Sokka, if this is getting to be too much for you—”

“No.” He shook his head before his dad even had the chance to finish. He was going to do the same thing as Zuko and try to suggest Sokka step back. It wasn’t happening. “Fine. Tired. Not hungry. Need to work.”

“You need to eat.” Hakoda’s tone was stern but laced with concern, as if he were more worried about the consequences of Sokka not eating than anything else. “Please, bud, I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t. Not hungry.”

“I know you’re lying. I was attributing it to the changed diet we’re on but you’re not eating enough, Sokka. Just looking at you I can tell you’ve been losing weight. That’s not okay. I’m not going to make you have an entire meal but just eat _something_ , please.”

“No.” Sokka inhaled deeply, squeezing his hands around his stomach to fight both the hunger pains he was trying to suppress and the urge to touch bandages around his arms. “Can’t.”

Bato blinked. “ _Can’t_? Why?”

“Binge.”

“What?”

“Eat, binge. Don’t want to binge anymore.”

Neither Bato nor Hakoda said a single word as Sokka took another long breath, trying to keep himself steady. He was almost falling asleep for reasons he couldn’t explain, his head still pounding and his arms throbbing with each pitifully small movement he tried on them. Sokka didn’t even realize that his dad knelt down beside him until Hakoda’s hand was already on his shoulder, squeezing him tightly, reassuringly, and gently urging his chin to look up. Sokka only managed to open his eyes for a few seconds. It was pathetic how much the panic attack wore him out.

“Hey. Look at me.” He tried again, but his eyes wouldn’t stop fluttering open and shut regardless of how hard he pushed them. Hakoda must’ve taken it as good enough. “You’ve been binging again?”

Because of course everyone knew about that too. Sokka had been a stupid teenager and told them all about what was bothering him when he was struggling after the war. He told them all the problems when they asked, when he broke, when he thought it was okay. It wasn’t until he saw the way it affected them that he stopped. When he saw how his dad struggled at night, how Bato comforted him, how his dad comforted Katara, that he realized it caused a painful chain reaction he never wanted to be the start of again. Sokka swallowed hard before he nodded, painfully aware of what the repercussions of the answer could be, but too tired to effectively argue.

“How often have you been doing it?” He didn’t answer. Once or twice wasn’t a big deal, it was a small relapse. Just as long as he didn’t let them know more. “Sokka. You been doing it every day?”

“No.” Sokka shook his head quickly, ignoring the fact that was almost right. “Only a few times.”

Neither Hakoda nor Bato seemed fully willing to accept the answer but they didn’t fight him either. He chose that moment to finally attempt to eat something and though it burned going down his throat, he knew it was the best decision because it stopped them from asking more questions. It stopped them from freaking out more. It stopped everyone from hurting because of his own stupid mistakes.

It gave him the ability to keep going under the ruse that everything else was okay.


	5. Silence is Just Another Word for Pain

Choosing the blade was a bad idea. It was always a bad idea, but Sokka was in a place where he didn’t care anymore. Where absently digging at his scabs and tracing along old scars was more of a fidget than anything else. Did it leave trails of blood along his skin? Was it something he wanted and kept doing again regardless of rational thought? Yes. It distracted him from his failures. It kept him from beating himself up whenever he made another mistake. It kept the adrenaline flowing through his veins so he could keep moving, keep working, never stop when he wanted to break.

There were a lot of sacrifices made in the creation of Sokka’s next plan but it wasn’t anything that a few drops of blood couldn’t heal. He binged when he said he didn’t, he stayed up all night when he said he slept, and he kept the old blood draining whenever he could despite what he’d promised Toph. As long as there was something new coursing through his veins, he could keep going. He could keep moving and breathing and holding himself in one piece even when it felt as if a single mistake might shatter him like a vase. Sokka kept himself focused on what he was doing, refusing to let anyone in, and didn’t stop to think about himself until the day he didn’t wake up. The night he had that dream.

It didn’t end. He could barely remember what it was, but what he did know was that it didn’t end. Sokka couldn’t breathe, he kept thrashing around and sobbing in his sleep, and sweat dripped off his person even more heavily than the blood he’d released before passing out in his makeshift bed. The lights in the sky were blinding him, the crashing in the distance deafening his senses. He didn’t know where he was or what was happening but he hated it. He hated life, himself, _everything_. All he wanted was to wake up and see that it was a bad dream. That it was over. That he was safe. But it wasn’t all that easy.

“Sokka. Sokka, wake up. Please. Sokka. _Sokka_. You’re okay. It’s just a dream.”

He blinked several times before he looked up to meet Suki’s gaze. He couldn’t remember having fallen asleep or even if he decided to go to bed in the first place, and it was disorienting. Suki’s brown eyes were wide with concern, one hand gripping his tightly. He was holding back. He couldn’t remember doing that. Sokka took a deep breath, blinking again as he tried to calm himself down. He couldn’t recall what was happening, just that it hurt. Everything hurt. His head hurt, his arms hurt, and he was covered in a layer of what he hoped was nothing but sweat. Suki didn’t look upset with him, thankfully, but she had every right to be. She had every right to hate him for how many times he’d failed.

“Hey, are you okay? What happened?” Suki slid one hand on Sokka’s face but he pulled away. He didn’t want her to have to touch his disgusting sweat. To brush away his disgraceful tears. He shook his head, shifting back into the pillows. The cloth could do the job. It was better that way. “I came to make sure you got breakfast and you were thrashing around in the blankets.”

“I’m fine,” Sokka mumbled, though his throat was dry and his head was pounding. He wanted nothing more than for everything to stop, for him to get the fuck out of that situation and finish the work he was meant to be doing, but he couldn’t say that. Not without scaring Suki. Not without admitting he was just as much of a failure as everyone thought. “I don’t need breakfast, I need to get back to work. I’m almost finished with this thing.”

But then he sat up, saw the open, unwrapped cuts along his left arm beside the shredded remains of his knuckles, and the entire world spun around. Suki’s quick reflexes were all that stopped him from falling right over again, his breathing too heavy and his stomach churning like he were about to throw up all the nothing and coffee he’d managed to keep down. Suki pulled him into her shoulder, her arm brushing against his and causing him to wince. It wasn’t even just the pain. It was the fact that Suki’s arms were so much bigger than his. That he’d lost so much muscle definition since he messed up his shoulder, he couldn’t even match hers anymore.

“Shit, Sokka, when was the last time you ate something?” He shook his head. He didn’t know how to answer after lying to his dad and Bato, and if he were being honest with himself, he really didn’t want to. Suki slid her arm around Sokka’s waist, trying to lift him to his feet. He resisted, and the look in her eyes was pained though she hadn’t even seemed to notice the dried blood yet. “Sokka, please. I’m not joking. I know you want to get right to work but you are not doing well at all right now. Just let us take care of this for you, okay? You have to be there for yourself first.”

“No.” It was the only word he could get out without vomiting. His head was still pounding, and all he could think was that he couldn’t let her do that. He couldn’t let her tell everyone that he was a failure when he’d barely convinced them he wasn’t. “I don’t need to eat, I need to finish this. I— I need to— I need—”

In all honesty, he couldn’t remember passing out but he knew when he woke up because Katara was at his left arm with her hands wrapped in glowing water, and Suki was clinging to his right hand careful to avoid his torn knuckles. He barely blinked back to reality, not quite processing that his blood-stained shirt had been taken, his blanket replaced with a fresh one, and Katara was healing his self-inflicted wounds. It hurt too much. Sokka knew he needed to get up, he needed to get back to work before everything got even worse, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t get himself to open his eyes let alone sit up, and it was too much. All of it was too much.

Waking up was a slow process. At first, the girls didn’t seem to notice that he’d awoken, and it took him several minutes to get his eyes to stay propped up. Suki stroked his hair back when he finally looked at her, his fingers tickling the back of her hand as he struggled to regain control over his weakened body. Not one of them said a word, and Sokka knew it was because they were trying to figure out how to scold him without making it worse. How to point out the fact that he was weak and pathetic without scaring him. Sokka let out a soft moan and pulled back when Katara shifted her positioning, the pain and magic sensation tingling through his veins.

“Relax.” Suki’s hand was on his face again, and he finally found it in him to let his eyes close. It ached too much to force them open. It burned too much where Katara touched. “I am so sorry we weren’t here for you, Sokka, but we’re here now, okay? Your dad just went to get some gauze for when Katara finishes. We’ve been doing our best to— Katara, she— she’s doing her best, but she can’t heal them all the way. You cut too deep.”

That was when he realized that Katara was crying. When she sniffed and he looked over to find the tears dripping down her chin. That was exactly what he was afraid of. Sokka wasn’t just hurting himself anymore, he was hurting his family too. He was hurting everyone he cared about and that was what pushed him over the edge. That was what made him think that falling down the cliff when he had the chance would’ve been a good idea. Part of Sokka wanted to run back over to that cliff and dive right off but a larger, more physical part of him couldn’t move from bed because no one would let him. Because they were treating him just like the baby he’d behaved as.

Sokka was alert enough to realize that his dad came back at some point and that Toph was in there for a bit, but not alert enough to talk to them. Not alert enough to keep his eyes open or even appear awake to Suki and Katara who told their dad that he’d been drifting in and out of consciousness for a while. Maybe that was true. He could see the tan coloring of the tent above him and it was definitely changing shades, but he didn’t know if that was because of the clouds or because so much time was really passing. All he knew was that it hurt. It hurt when they pulled the gauze over his arms. When Hakoda quietly revealed to Katara and Suki that he believed it was his fault because Sokka admitted to binging again and he didn’t think it was anything too serious.

“Hey, bud.” When he was finally conscious enough to keep his eyes open, the first thing he registered was his dad’s hand on his head, gently pulling the hair out of face. Sokka blinked, unable to hold his gaze for long. “How you feeling?”

“Tired,” was the only thing Sokka could say without it sounding like a disgusting lie or a verbal weapon. The look on his dad’s face already stung and he knew it was his fault. He shouldn’t have been so impulsive and sloppy. He shouldn’t have cut so deep they’d all find out. “Sorry. Stupid.”

“No, no, no, hey. Sokka, it’s okay. Nobody thinks you’re stupid. We’re just worried, all right? We all want you to be okay.”

“Mm. Focus.”

Hakoda frowned. “What?”

“The— The war.” Sokka swallowed hard, trying to find the breath to speak, but it all hurt too much. It took energy he no longer had. “Focus.”

“Oh, _no_. Sokka, _you_ are my priority right now, okay? And there is _nothing_ wrong with that. Katara, can you go get him a fresh cloth, please? I want to try and keep his fever down.”

It wasn’t until he made the request that Sokka realized his temperature felt so off nor that he noticed his sister and Suki were still in there with them. He watched as Katara hesitated before standing, running out of the tent in a flash. Suki stayed where she was at his bedside, biting her thumbnail and blinking back what he knew weren’t her first tears. It was his fault. He did that. He hurt her. It was horrible that Sokka’s first instinct was to grab his blade again but he couldn’t stop himself from wanting it. He deserved it. His family was hurting, scared, and it was all because of him. Because he gave into the urges. Because he wasn’t good enough.

“S—Sorry,” Sokka started, his voice drier and quieter than he wanted it to be. The moment he started talking, his eyes began to drift shut, but not before he felt Hakoda pulling his loose hair back again or saw Suki shifting closer. “I didn’t— didn’t mean to— it hurt, and I was— it felt like I deserved— I— I was sick, felt sick, and I— didn’t wanna eat but I— I kept— I kept binging when you were— when you were asleep— and the— the spirits, they— they just— everything hurts. It hurts and I don’t— I don’t wanna hurt anymore.”

“I know.” There was no way anything Sokka said made the slightest bit of sense. He was too out of it, his thoughts beyond scattered and indecipherable as anything more than self-deprecating babbles. Regardless, Hakoda gave his shoulder a little squeeze, prompting him to open his eyes again at least a little. “Okay, I need you to tell me when the last time you ate was, bud, and you have to be honest, all right? Sokka? You awake?”

“Mm. It was— I— I think— last night? Blurs. Binged. Hurt.”

Hakoda nodded, taking a deep breath, and glancing over to Suki before he said another word. “Do you think you can try and have something now?”

He regretted saying yes. He regretted agreeing because it got him into a pathetic situation where he was leaning against his dad for support at the same time Katara wiped his forehead like he was a sick child. Sokka was depressed and he was willing to admit that but the fact that everyone immediately started coddling him when they figured it out was ridiculous. He was not doing well, but he was doing well enough to not have to have his meals brought to him. Would he have done anything but binge if they weren’t? No, but that was irrelevant. It was stupid how close an eye they kept on him, allowing him to keep working but _only_ with the brushes they’d cleared because they ransacked his tent for anything he could hurt himself with, and they checked on him twenty-two times a day to make sure he wasn’t getting overwhelmed.

The ironic part was, in doing that, they became the ones overwhelming him.

Sokka understood that everyone wanted him to be okay but he couldn’t understand the _why_ of it. He couldn’t understand why anyone would care about weak, insignificant little Sokka. It was so stupid, he wouldn’t even talk to them about the truth of why he did it. He wouldn’t tell them about the spirits or the guilt because that wasn’t something he could easily explain. That wasn’t something he could talk about without them thinking he was absolutely crazy or he was so far gone mentally that he needed to step back from everything. Not that nobody thought he needed to take a step back, of course. They asked him to every day. His dad, Katara, Suki, Toph, _Zuko_.

“You don’t have to do this.”

The words made him snort because they implied he had a choice. As if he wanted to be sitting there in the middle of a war zone, working on his plans at any hour he could. Like he wasn’t desperate to go back to the tribe and hide out in his igloo with all his meaningless inventions and ridiculous doodles. As if he _chose_ this life and somehow had a way out of it that didn’t involve diving straight off that cliff. He raised an eyebrow when he glanced behind his shoulder to look at Zuko, slowly shaking his head and hoping his point would come across.

“I’m serious,” Zuko went on, kneeling beside Sokka. He reached out for his hand, and for one reason, Sokka didn’t pull away. His arm wasn’t in a sling anymore. When the _fuck_ did that happen? “I know that Aang and I asked you to come here but if this is too much for you, you don’t have to do this. The Water Tribe is not a part of this war. You are under absolutely no obligation to stay here with us if it’s too much to handle.”

“What, because you think I’m going to leave you here?” The statement was too specific. He wasn’t supposed to say things like that about Zuko anymore. Not when he was trying to get over those feelings. “You think I’m going to leave any of you here? Katara won’t go, my dad won’t go, and I’m not going to just abandon everyone. We made a commitment when we chose to come here with you and I’m not going to break that now. I’m not going to let this start another war.”

“But what if there already is one and it’s happening inside your head?” He made a face, quickly frowning and letting out a breath. “Okay, I know that sounded stupid but you know what I mean, right? I know you want to help and I appreciate it so much but I don’t know if you’re mentally capable of handling this right now. You’ve been hurting yourself, Sokka, and I don’t know if you’re going to keep doing that or if you weren’t just sitting on this cliff to—”

“Stop. Seriously, Zuko, just stop. I’m fine. I’m over it. I had a momentary relapse but I worked through it and it’s fine now. I’m fine.”

“Then why haven’t you made any jokes since we’ve been here? Why haven’t you really smiled since they tried to kill me? It’s not just about what’s happening right this second. I know you’re not okay and I know you’re lying to us when you say that you are. You can’t handle another war. I understand that. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay.” Sokka shook his head more furiously, his eyes going wide. “I need to help you guys. I need to do this. I—”

“You need to take care of yourself.” Zuko’s hands gripped around one of Sokka’s, squeezing his fingers tight and pressing against his torn knuckles. He looked up into Zuko’s eyes—those beautiful, _beautiful_ amber eyes—and let himself hold back for a few seconds before he pulled away. “Sokka, please. I’m serious. This is not okay.”

“You’re right, it’s not. We grew up in a war, we ended a war, and now that we’re adults and we’re supposed to be past that, we’re back in it, trying to stop another fucking war again. So, no, it’s not fucking fair but it’s not like there’s anything we can do about it, is there? Thanks for worrying about me, Zuko, honestly, but I’m going to keep fighting. That’s what I’m good at. That’s what I care about more than myself.”

“I know, I understand that, but _I_ care about _you_ more than I care about myself, Sokka, and I can’t watch you—”

Sokka didn’t know what the fuck compelled him to do what he did next but it happened and he didn’t try to stop it. He reached forward and grabbed the collar of Zuko’s shirt, pulling him forward and bringing their lips together. They touched for only the briefest moment before Zuko slid back, his eyes wide as he looked to Sokka in disbelief, and Sokka wasted no time in pressing their lips back together again. It was rough, passionate, sloppy as Sokka’s open hand moved to Zuko’s cheek and Zuko’s fingers slid to grip Sokka’s thighs. Zuko tasted sweet like the candy he binged every night, sour like the drugs he used to dull his pain, salty like the tears streaming from his eyes.

“Hey. Stop. Sokka.” Suddenly, Zuko moved his hands to Sokka’s face, gently pushing him back and urging him to meet his gaze. He softly stroked Sokka’s chin with his thumb, blinking a few times before he went on. “You’re only kissing me because it hurts. I don’t want you to do that to yourself. Come here.”

The only reason Sokka accepted the embrace was because Zuko’s hands were so warm, so soft, and they eased him into his shoulder. Sokka wrapped his arms around Zuko’s stomach, pressing his forehead against his shoulder and squeezing his eyes shut as the tears soaked into Zuko’s shirt. Zuko pressed a kiss to Sokka’s temple, rubbing his upper arm reassuringly and pulling him in close. It was stupid. They weren’t together. They couldn’t be together. If anything, Zuko was comforting him because he was acting like a stupid child. He let himself keep crying anyway. He let Zuko hold him because he knew the moment he left, everything would start to hurt again. And it did, because it always did.

Zuko didn’t let Sokka out of his sight until he was safe back with Suki and Katara, and they didn’t leave him until it was late at night and he was well over half asleep. Everything kept going the same way after that, his friends and family watching him like he was a baby, and Zuko stopped with his advances. They looked to each other now and then, let their gazes linger a little too long, but that was it. They didn’t talk. They didn’t go back to what they’d begun to develop. They let the feelings fizzle and fade until there was practically nothing left of them. Until they were so damn strong Sokka had to deny them to pretend they weren’t real. To stop it from adding even more pain to his state.

It got harder to keep going with every passing minute. Once his friends and family all knew that he’d been cutting again, that he’d been binging again, they never let him be alone. They were constantly on top of him to make sure that he was okay, and it only ever made things worse. There was a difference between caring for him and overwhelming him and they well over crossed that line. Sokka wanted to say something about it, to ask them to leave him alone, but it always came out wrong. It never convinced them to do anything but keep a closer eye on him, even if they wouldn’t always admit that was why they were suddenly spending so much time with his stupid ass.

Every day, the urge to cut got stronger. Sokka picked at his scabs, chewed on his nails, scraped his knuckles whenever he was alone with the rocks, but it wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be the same. He craved the blade and at a certain point, he couldn’t stand it anymore. Sokka pretended to be asleep to get everyone away from him, cried into and squeezed his pillow until he couldn’t breathe anymore, and he needed an escape. He leapt out of bed, not bothering with a shirt, shoes, or even a hair tie before he ducked out of his tent. It wasn’t going to be easy to get the knife, but he needed it. He craved it. He sneaked across the campsite, slid inside the weapons tent, and found the first knife he could. Just holding it was a relief. He pressed it down against his skin, watched as the familiar red liquid started to bubble up around it, and let out a gasp when another hand landed on top of his.

“Stop it, Sokka, you— let go!” One of Hakoda’s arms was wrapped around his son’s stomach, the other wrestling until he managed to steal the knife wrapped between his fingers. Immediately, Sokka tried to take it back again, but Hakoda threw it across the tent where he couldn’t get it. He opened his mouth to say something, to beg for it back, but snapped his mouth shut when his left knee caved and his dad lowered him to the ground. Hakoda pulled him close to his chest, squeezing his arms around his stomach and resting his chin on top of Sokka’s head. “Relax, Sokka. It’s okay. Just breathe, all right? Breathe. You’re okay. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sokka, his loose hair burning his eyes as he squeezed them shut tighter. Hakoda didn’t move his arms, holding Sokka close and refusing to let him move toward any of the sharp weapons around the room. “I’m— I’m so fucking sorry. I— I just— it makes me feel better. _Please_.”

“No. I’m not letting you do this to yourself anymore. I know it makes you feel better but that’s not because it’s a good thing, that’s because it’s an _addiction_. You are _not_ okay, and letting you keep doing this isn’t going to do anything but make it worse. Come on. Let’s get you back to bed, okay?”

“Mm. I can’t sleep, I can’t— I can’t stop thinking about— I just— I want the— I want the knife. Please. I can’t sleep without it. I deserve it, and I can’t— I can’t sleep if I don’t have it. That’s how I sleep.”

“Sokka, that’s not how you sleep, that’s how you _pass out_. Come here.” The only reason Sokka didn’t resist when his dad lifted him back to his feet was because he was so stuck in his own head. Maybe Hakoda was right. That was how Suki and Katara figured it out, wasn’t it? He passed out on them because he lost too much blood. “You don’t have to sleep, okay? You just sit with me and relax.”

He agreed because his dad’s tent was unnaturally calm. Because when Bato wrapped a blanket around his cold, bare shoulders, he started to feel a little safer. Neither him nor Hakoda asked Sokka to actually go to sleep, but they did ask him lie on the ground between them and made sure he was comfortable from his head to his bad leg. Sokka didn’t say much aside from scattered apologies for things he couldn’t explain, including his urges to cut several times over, but he listened. He listened as Bato and Hakoda quietly talked to him about home and other relaxing things. He listened when Bato fell back asleep and his quiet breaths momentarily took over the talk. He listened to his dad’s heartbeat when Hakoda pulled him into his arms and promised he would be okay.

It didn’t work, but Sokka appreciated the effort more than he could say.

Against all odds, Sokka did manage to fall asleep that night. It only happened when he was wrapped in Bato’s blanket and snuggled up close to his dad, but it happened, and that was what mattered. He didn’t have any bad dreams that night. He didn’t wake up feeling like he wanted the knife. But he did wake up alone and that was enough to scare him all over again. Sokka was shaking by the time Bato and Hakoda walked back into the tent, breakfast in their hands. He accepted the hug from his dad but refused the dish that Bato put down in front of him. If he wasn’t allowed to cut, then he wasn’t allowed to binge either, and eating _always_ led to binging.

“Come on, bud, please.” Sokka refused to even lift his gaze, knowing that if he looked up to meet his dad’s eyes, he’d probably end up giving in. Still, Hakoda’s tone was so calm, so pleading, he almost wanted to do it. He almost wanted to just give in and at least try. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the temptation. “Sokka, you can’t not eat anything; you have to get your strength back up. Just try it. Please.”

“No.” He squeezed his eyes shut, twisting the blanket around in his hands. Sokka hesitated before choosing to explain, hoping his dad would understand and not freak out even more over it. “Eating ends in binging. Don’t want to binge anymore.”

“Okay, listen.” The only reason Sokka looked up was because of the way his dad’s tone changed and his face softened. He looked saddened by Sokka’s words and immediately, he felt guilty for causing that reaction. “I know you’re scared of relapsing again, but I’m here for you now, all right? I’m here, Bato is here, and we’re not going to let you do _anything_ bad to yourself. Just try and have something, please. We got you.”

Choosing to listen was one of the worst decisions Sokka had made in ages. While he was sitting there in the tent, he was fine. He ate, he drank, he took care of himself, and Bato and Hakoda talked to him until the urges started to fade. But the moment he was on his own again, they came back. He felt better when he was eating, when that familiar sense of home was inside him and if he couldn’t cut, he wanted that. The entire time he worked on his plans, all he thought about was eating again, so he did the opposite. He missed out on lunch, conveniently disappeared around dinner, and as soon as everyone else was asleep, begged himself not to give into the urges.

He did it anyway.

It wasn’t that he wanted to make himself sick or even that he wanted to eat anything, it was that it brought him an inexplicable amount of comfort. It helped him feel grounded, safe, and when he closed his eyes, it was like he was right back at home again. The cold night air, the taste of the Water Tribe on his tongue, reminding him of everything he had before the conflict stole his life again. So, instead of stopping when he knew he should, Sokka just held his eyes shut, let the tears roll down his cheeks, and let his hands indulge him in as many snacks as they wanted. As many snacks as he could manage before the hand wrapped around his and carefully took them away from him.

“I’m sorry,” babbled Sokka, the words running out of his lips the second Suki’s arms pulled him into an embrace. His inhale was wheezy and painful, drying his throat and preceding a pathetic sob. “I tried to stop myself, but I— I couldn’t—”

“Shh.” Suki slid a hand up to the back of Sokka’s head, pulling him in closer and leaning into his shoulder. He swallowed hard when the fresh salty waves washed over his cheeks, struggling to keep himself from completely losing it. “It’s okay. I’m not mad at you.”

“You’re disappointed.”

“I’m not disappointed in you either.”

He sniffed, squeezing his knuckles tight and letting his gaze drop when he felt the blood escaping the scabs and soaking into his bandages. A short silence followed before he mumbled out another apology, to which Suki did nothing but hold him closer. He hated putting his family through that pain. He hated sharing his suffering and forcing them to struggle more than they already were. But he had to admit it felt really nice to have a shoulder to cry on when he was scared it would never stop.


	6. Even if They Promised They Won't

It took a lot of convincing for Sokka to be able to work again.

All he really wanted was to keep going, to do whatever he could to end the conflict before it could turn into a brutal, lengthy war, but his family didn’t want him to. They gave up suggesting he go home and laid off him for a while, and then he went and fucked it all up again. He hurt himself in front of his dad, cried in front of Bato, binged in front of Suki; after a certain amount of denial, he had to stop and accept they knew how bad it was. Everyone knew how bad it was and it wasn’t fair to them to have to deal with it. So, Sokka put on a brave face and did what he could to convince them he was okay. He was fine. They helped him and he was feeling better and he needed to go back to work again. So, he did.

Sokka still wasn’t allowed to have any knives or similar sharp objects when he was alone, so he resorted to different methods of self-mutilation. He went for walks and scraped his knuckles against the trees and the rocks, he picked at his nails until they bled and used what was left to dig at his old cuts, but none of it was ever good enough. Not until he was so deep in his delusions that he couldn’t shake the spirits of the dead, couldn’t get the shadows out of his head, and he threw his mirror across the tent. It cracked. There were more than one or two decently sized shards of glass. Sokka didn’t stare at the mess for a full minute before wrapping a jagged triangle in his sleeve and tearing at his bandages.

Against all odds, that did turn out to be the best possible thing that could’ve happened. The moment Sokka was back to self-harming—even if he hadn’t been able to find comfort in binging in _days_ thanks to his family closely monitoring his food intake—and back to dulling the bad thoughts, he acted better. He didn’t _feel_ better but being able to take out the hurt on himself made it easier to put on a good face for his family. They started to believe he was improving, gave him more work, and he was suddenly back at it again despite the fact he only felt worse. He drew on his arms as much as the papers and his friends assumed it was a fidget. He didn’t care to correct them.

“You really think this plan is going to work?” asked Sokka hesitantly. It was the umpteenth one he’d suggested that week, and the first that his friends seemed eager to go along with. “I mean, I’m not trying to sound doubtful, but it’s just that we’ve tried so many things already, and— should we give it a try?”

Honestly, it surprised him when they agreed, and it devastated him when they tried to suggest he shouldn’t come along. Sokka argued with them for as long as he could until they finally gave in, agreeing that he could go to the same village as his dad to present the proposal. He was okay with that. He had no interest in going anywhere on his own and the rest of them were all going in pairs anyway, so he might as well head off with his dad. Hakoda seemed a little hesitant releasing weapons to Sokka after everything that happened, so he forced a smile and convinced his dad it would be okay. He was careful to pull down his gloves and his sleeves so nobody could see how quickly he’d relapsed.

They waited two days to perfect everything before they went off their separate ways. Sokka refused his cane the day they went for travel despite his dad’s arguments, stating that he was having a better day and it would be fine. That was a decision he’d almost come to regret, but not until after they spoke to the leaders of that village. It didn’t go over as well as they wanted it to. Of course, a disagreement came up between the Earth Kingdom leaders and those from the Fire Nation—Sokka thought they were both dumb as fuck but he didn’t say that, obviously—and things only escalated from there. One moment, they were talking. The next, they were arguing. And then, out of nowhere, the whole damn thing exploded and they were trapped in the middle of a fight.

Sokka fought the best he could, careful not to hurt anyone who wasn’t actively attacking him, and he held his ground for a good several minutes. He could only last for so long, however, and at a certain point, everything caught up to him. He could barely stand from walking so far on his bad leg and having to sit on it on the floor during the discussions, his arms were giving out on him from his bad shoulder and how much blood he’d lost, and his general lack of self-care stole so much energy he could barely even breathe. It was when he almost passed out fighting an angry Fire Nation citizen when Sokka was suddenly pulled into the arms of his dad, literally lifting him off his feet and carrying him to safety.

They didn’t stop until they were behind a large tree beside the town, ducked far out of everyone’s sight. Sokka couldn’t talk when his dad set him down but he managed to nod as he confirmed he was okay and wordlessly put the blame on his bad leg and shoulder. Hakoda seemed to buy it, brushing his frizzy hair from his eyes, and pulling Sokka’s hair tie tighter as he knelt down in front of him. He wasn’t stupid. He knew that Sokka was lying about his reasons for almost passing out. It was obvious his entire body was lethargic as much as he wanted to deny it. Hakoda’s hands on his cheeks were almost holding his head up as it drooped, his eyes wanting to close though he begged them to stay open.

“Oh, _shit_. Stay here!”

Though Sokka wanted to cry out the second his dad rose and ran off back into the village, he still failed to get his mouth to produce any real sound. For a moment, he took deep breaths and tried to convince himself it would be okay, but he stopped when he heard the fire, and the ash drifted through the wind and landed on the ground beside him. He couldn’t stop the tears that burst out of his eyes after that. Couldn’t mute the sobs that broke through his lips and the hands that twitched to hurt himself. It was over. They were done. Because Sokka wasn’t good enough, his dad left him. Because Sokka wasn’t good enough, his dad might be dead.

He felt stupid for crying that way, for begging his dad to come back when he was twenty fucking years old, but it _hurt_. His dad said he was going to stay and help him, he _promised_ he was never going to leave again, and he did. He walked away. Not only did he leave Sokka in the middle of a war zone, unable to stand up with ash raining down on his head, but he put himself at risk and he did it because of Sokka. Sokka wasn’t strong enough to go out and fight with him so he had to do it alone, just like Sokka wasn’t good enough to save his mother. To save Yue. To protect Suki. He wasn’t good enough for _anything_ and he knew it and he knew that was why everyone left. Why they always, _always_ left.

Sokka wasn’t sobbing so much as wheezing for his breath, pleading for himself to get back under control. There was nothing left of the Sokka that once was. Nothing left of the guy who was always funny and kept up a positive attitude at least so he could cheer up those around him. He turned to face the tree behind him, tearing off his gloves and his bandages before shoving his already shredded knuckles against the bark. It burned when he scraped them, throbbed as left behind trails of red blood, but he couldn’t stop to care about it because the last person who promised to always be there for him was _gone_. The last person he thought he could unconditionally rely on _left_ and was probably dead just like his mom. Just like he was about to be because he couldn’t move his fucking leg.

The only reassuring part about the situation was that somewhere, deep down, he was still afraid to die. At least one part of him didn’t want to end everything, didn’t want to leave his whole life behind, even if he often thought that he did. Sokka all but choked on his own breaths as he struggled to get past the panic, to get past everything, and he wanted nothing more than to take it all back. Than to go back and refuse to help fight in that awful war because just like Zuko said, it wasn’t his. He didn’t have to help, he _chose_ to do it. He _chose_ to mutilate himself. He _chose_ to be pathetic and hide instead of fighting. Instead of helping his dad and protecting the people that he loved.

“Sokka.”

Any words following that didn’t register at all. He felt like throwing up and the moment the fingers approached his person, his body assumed the worse and he did. Sokka coughed and heaved and it didn’t matter because he didn’t matter. Regardless of what anyone said to him, he was _alone_. He was alone and abandoned while all his friends and family were being killed in the crossfire. He kept his arms on the ground where he’d doubled over to vomit, his head close to the dirt and his chest heaving aggressively. Someone’s hand was on his back, but all he could hear was his own breath alongside the fire and rocks crashing and burning in the distance.

“Sokka, it’s okay.”

It wasn’t okay. He wasn’t good enough and everyone knew that. That was why they abandoned him _again_. He was pathetic. Weak. There was every reason for them to leave him behind and yet he still didn’t know how to process it. The sounds coming out of his mouth were intolerable, a disgusting mix of coughing and unintelligible sobs. Sokka clenched the grass between his fingers, willing it all to stop. Begging it to go away. It was too much. He should’ve fallen off the cliff while he still had the chance. At least then he wouldn’t have died feeling like he was alone. Like nothing he did was ever, _ever_ enough.

“ _Sokka_ —”

“You said you wouldn’t leave me!” The words barely made it out of his mouth, getting caught in his throat and coming out in a mess of repressed sobs and broken wheezes. “You _promised_. You said— You said you would never leave me again but you _did_. You left just like you always do! Like everyone does! You say you care and you do all the shit so it feels like you want to help but you _don’t_. Nobody does. Nobody ever fucking cared because Katara’s a waterbender and Aang’s the Avatar and Zuko’s the Fire Lord and Toph invented metalbending and Suki leads the Kyoshi Warriors and I’m just fucking stupid, disabled Sokka. I’m not smart, I’m not a warrior, I’m not a people person; I’m fucking _nothing_.”

The hand shifted from his back to his shoulder to his waist. One arm around him, then two, and suddenly he was wrapped in his dad’s arms, sobbing like an unkempt baby. It wasn’t making anything better. If anything, he was making it all so much worse, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t stop. Hakoda rocked him back and forth gently, resting his chin on the top of Sokka’s head and using one hand to softly urge Sokka to elevate his bleeding fingers. He let out a long, deep breath, but Sokka couldn’t recognize the tone of it and was left to draw his own conclusions. Hakoda thought he was stupid. Pathetic. Weak. A failure. His best guess was that his dad was preparing to tell him he had no business coming back to the camp, let alone home to the tribe.

“I’m so sorry, Sokka.” Hakoda squeezed him tighter, pulled him closer to his chest, but it didn’t make Sokka feel any better. Nothing could make him feel any better. Not anymore. “I just— there were children in danger, and I— I’m so, _so_ sorry we haven’t been there for you and I am so fucking sorry it feels like I lied. I’m— I’m not going to leave you, okay? I’m never, _ever_ going to leave you. I promise.”

“But you’ve said all that before and it never changes anything.” It was awful. He was shaking, sobbing, his words almost screaming through his sobs instead of coming out even halfway coherent. Hakoda didn’t try to stop him, only holding him closer, which was the clearest indication that something was seriously wrong. “You said you weren’t going to leave me and you did. Mom left and then you left and all I had was Katara. And I know Gran Gran was there and everyone else but nobody fucking cared about me, okay?! I’m ‘the big brother’, ‘the man of the tribe’, a fucking non-bender next to my incredible little sister. Nobody fucking cared. Nobody has _ever_ fucking cared.”

Hakoda didn’t even say a word. He just sniffed and pulled Sokka in closer to his chest, squeezing his shoulders tightly and adjusting his chin on his head. If nothing else, he felt guilty. He felt bad about the things Sokka was saying and he knew that because he was crying too. The middle of a fucking battlefield and they were both crying because Sokka was so damn weak. He could barely even process the continued apologies from his dad, unable to listen to it and not hate himself for thinking that he didn’t deserve it. Everything Sokka said about himself was right, but it was wrong to act like he was a victim. Nobody cared because he didn’t give them a reason to. Nobody cared because he was a fucking loser and he didn’t deserve it.

They stayed hidden for a few more minutes, no thanks to Sokka’s uncontrollable sobbing, and the moment they had an opening, Hakoda lifted Sokka’s left arm around his shoulders and helped him to his feet. The tears didn’t stop flowing, especially triggered when he had to put weight on his fucked-up leg, but the repeated reassurance helped a little. It convinced him not to walk into the line of fire. Not to tear away from his dad and disappear off to somewhere they would never find him. It convinced him to stay because it didn’t matter what happened, he couldn’t be that person. He couldn’t be the one who left.

Even if it hurt to stay.

“All right, bud, I need you to look at me, okay? I want to talk before we get back to the camp so you’re not too overwhelmed by everyone.” Hakoda didn’t speak until Sokka was seated on a log three-fourths of the way to the camp. Somehow, Sokka found the strength to meet his dad’s gaze, though his eyes turned down again when Hakoda moved to brush the tears from his cheeks. “I know it’s hard, but I don’t want to have to have this conversation with anyone else listening, all right? It’s just you and me, so I need you to be really honest. Have you been lying to us? Sokka, look at me. Have you been lying to us about your recovery?”

“Does it matter?” mumbled Sokka, pulling away when his dad tried to elevate his hands again.

“Yes, it does. I know it hurts and it’s hard for you to believe and that’s okay, but we care about you so much, bud. Nobody wants to see you hurt, especially by your own hand.”

“I just— I wasn’t trying to— I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t— I kept biting my nails, and picking at— picking at my cuts, and then I— I broke my mirror by accident and I started— I started cutting again because I wanted to binge and you wouldn’t let me. I just— I just want to feel better and you won’t let me and sometimes I think— I think it would be easier if I just died.”

“I—” Hakoda cut himself off before saying anything else, brushing a hand over his face and reaching down to pull Sokka back into his arms. It was hard to accept the embrace, especially when his dad was still trying to keep his hands elevated, but he didn’t pull away and he let that be enough. “Thank you for telling me the truth, Sokka. I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner, and I promise we all love you so much.”

Neither of them said another word before Hakoda helped Sokka back to his feet and they walked the rest of the way to the campsite. Everyone else was already back by the time they arrived, either because their meetings had gone better or just because Sokka was so damn slow walking home, and it left them with a whole welcoming party. Katara’s face dropped when she saw them and she immediately ran over to support Sokka’s other side, Toph asking Suki for information on whether Sokka looked better than he moved and Aang offering services that Hakoda politely declined. He requested someone find Bato and bring him to the medical tent, but beyond that, he said almost nothing.

Zuko joined them when they were almost there, immediately running over and refusing to leave Sokka’s side. It didn’t help. He clearly got himself into some other altercation because his chin was bruised and his previously broken arm was in a sling around his waist again. Even when Zuko assured him it was a minor fight and the sling was for comfort and not necessity, Sokka refused to lift his gaze again. It was his fault, all of it. They were his plans that were used. His plans that pissed off whoever it was that hurt Zuko. His plans that started the battle that seemed to have wiped out the entirety of the village he’d gone to with his dad. His plans that got people killed. His plans that triggered the sights of the spirits all around him.

“I’m sorry,” said Sokka, when Zuko reached to hold one of his hands and Katara began to heal the other. A new batch of tears was rolling down his cheeks and he wasn’t even sure when they started. He wasn’t confident they’d ever stopped. “I don’t know why I did it.”

“You were having a panic attack,” Hakoda told him quietly, taking a blanket from Bato and wrapping it around his bare shoulders. They’d had to discard his shirt not because it was in the way, but because it was coated in blood from his hands and soot from the sky. “You weren’t thinking straight. It’s not your fault. Nobody is upset with you.”

“But I did it before too. When you took my knife, I— I did it on the rocks. I wanted to feel better but you wouldn’t let me binge and you wouldn’t let me cut so I went for walks and I scraped my knuckles to make it hurt less and I hid it with my gloves.”

“Did it work?” asked Bato gently, tucking the blanket around one of his arms. Sokka blinked, confused by the question. “Did it make it hurt less?”

It took a long several seconds for him to shake his head. It distracted from the pain, but it didn’t make it go away. It was just different. Everything in his mind ached and he tried to cover it with physical pain but it didn’t make it stop. All it did was give him something equally as painful to focus on. Each time Katara twisted his hand, each time he moved his knuckles even the smallest bit, Sokka’s hands _throbbed_. He couldn’t put it into words how badly his fingers hurt and it was all because of himself. Because he didn’t know how to cope with his pain and his loss in a way that didn’t involve mutilating himself one way or another.

“We need the bandages.” Katara’s voice was quiet, her gaze never leaving Sokka’s hands. She felt like she failed, he knew it. He recognized her tone and the look in her eyes which accompanied it. “I did everything I could, but there’s just not— there isn’t any skin left on the surface for me to heal.”

Sokka cried the entire time they wrapped up his hands and his arms where he’d cut with the glass, but he couldn’t give a coherent reason why. Everything just hurt and the pressure on the tattered remains of his skin was a reminder of that. As much as he felt like he didn’t deserve it, Sokka allowed everyone to hug him when they finished. He let Bato hug him and tell him he did a good job, he let Hakoda hug him even though they both apologized about a thousand more times, and he let Katara hug him when she said sorry because she couldn’t make the top layer of his skin grow back. He gave her the biggest hug. It wasn’t her fault. She did everything she could. Sokka deserved the pain for his actions anyway.

Bato somehow convinced Hakoda and Katara to leave with him to get some dinner after their long day, but Sokka was meant to rest and they didn’t want to leave him alone, so Zuko stayed at his side. He already ate something before the others got back, he claimed, though Sokka’s mind was too hazy to decipher whether he was telling the truth or lying for an excuse to stay. He tried not to think too hard about it. It was easier to just accept Zuko’s word as fact than to fight with himself over whether or not he deserved the Fire Lord wanting to stay behind to watch over him. As such, he asked for no answers when Zuko helped him into bed and laid down beside him. He was just grateful for the company.

“You want me to get you anything?” asked Zuko quietly. Sokka didn’t resist when he reached up to wrap their hands together, gently squeezing his palm but careful to avoid his hurt knuckles. Quickly, Sokka shook his head, not wanting Zuko to leave nor to feel obligated to do anything for him when his arm was still in pain too. “Okay. Just let me know if you do.”

“No.” Sokka bit down on his lip, hesitating before he slid over and leaned in close to Zuko’s side. He carefully rested his head down on the Fire Lord’s chest, nuzzling in closer when Zuko dragged his fingers through his hair comfortingly. “Just stay. Please.”

Zuko didn’t say a word to agree, he just nodded and turned to kiss Sokka’s temple. Sokka knew that he shouldn’t allow himself to indulge, that he shouldn’t let himself fall asleep in Zuko’s arms, but he didn’t care to stop it. Something about Zuko’s touch so comforting, gentle, warm, and he never wanted to leave it. He let himself nod off there, drifting in and out of a sickly light sleep while Zuko held him close and finger-combed his hair. It was the perfect way to relax. Everything hurt but when he was lying there, the weight felt a little easier to carry. When he was sitting in the arms of someone he cared about, who he trusted, he—

It was that thought which brought his attention to the faint smell of smoke on Zuko’s clothing, to the unnaturally warm temperature of his body, and invaded his dreams and turned them into nightmares. That was how he met Zuko all that time ago, wasn’t it? He was trying to _kill_ them. Aang was the only one he cared to take alive. He’d knocked Sokka in the head several times, captured his sister, almost killed Aang even unintentionally, burned down _several_ villages—the offenses were countless. It didn’t matter how soft Zuko was deep down, how gentle and caring he could be with the people he loved, he was _Fire Nation_. He was Fire Nation and the Fire Nation was evil. The Fire Nation killed his mom. The Fire Nation took away everything he ever loved.

“Sokka. Hey.” It wasn’t until Zuko started brushing them away when Sokka realized there were tears rolling down his cheeks again. He twisted his fingers around Zuko’s shirt, blinking and shifting his cheek to wipe the spare moisture off. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay, I just—” The fingers on his cheek burned where they brushed his hair back. Zuko was kind, he was caring, but all Sokka could think about was the warmth of his hands. The red of his clothes. The pins on the floor from his entitled topknot. “You— You’d never hurt us, right? I mean, you wouldn’t— you’re past that. We’re friends now.”

At first, Zuko said nothing. His face froze in an unfamiliar expression, his eyes almost sad as one hand lifted to caress Sokka’s face, gently massaging the skin beside Sokka’s ear with his thumb. The longer the silence lasted, the worse the fear in Sokka’s stomach started to get. What if Zuko was about to tell him that he couldn’t make any promises? That it didn’t matter how much time passed, he was still Fire Nation, and Sokka should never trust him? It was a stupid fear. He should’ve understood the look on his face and the way his fingers moved so lovingly.

“We’re more than friends now, Sokka,” whispered Zuko, shifting to press their foreheads together. Sokka let his eyes drift shut again, a deep breath escaping his nose when Zuko pulled back and left a kiss in his place. Their fingers wrapped around each other in a way that fit too perfectly, and Sokka couldn’t resist the urge to squeeze Zuko’s hand back. “I understand if you don’t feel the same way, and I’m sorry if this is too much, but I love you, Sokka. I do. You have every right not to trust me after everything my people did to yours but I promise I will _never_ hurt you again, okay? Never. I know I have a bad temper and I say some seriously stupid shit sometimes but I… I would _never_ willingly hurt you the way I did before I knew you. I couldn’t. And all that said, if you’re uncomfortable with me being here, I’m more than happy to—”

Admittedly, it hurt a little swinging his leg as quickly as he did but Sokka didn’t regret anything when he saw Zuko’s eyes go wide. He reacted faster than Sokka could’ve imagined, his lips moving in perfect motion and his right hand reaching to hold Sokka’s hip. He was clearly trying to make sure he was comfortable straddling him with the way his fingers shifted down Sokka’s thigh, gently massaging it as they moved together. Sokka squeezed his hands around the fabric hugging Zuko’s shoulders, carefully sliding them up to the sides of his face and _almost_ smiling when Zuko moved his own hands to push Sokka’s loose hair back.

“You’re kissing me to make yourself feel better again,” said Zuko quietly, not making any move to try and get Sokka to stop. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“But it works.” Sokka leaned down and kissed him again, twice right in the center of his lips. “Why shouldn’t I do it if it makes me feel good?”

“Because that’s not a healthy coping mechanism.” He tilted his head when Sokka tried to ignore him, stealing a kiss on the tip of his nose, and gently running a finger down his jawline. “You cut to feel better. You binge to feel better. You’re doing the same thing right now, it’s just— Sokka, _stop_.”

He rolled off of Zuko suddenly, a shuddering breath escaping his lips as he dropped his head in front of him. Sokka swatted Zuko’s hands away the second he tried to move close again, shaking his head and biting down on his lip. That was it. That was the last person in the entire world he wanted to trust and it was pointless because Zuko lied. He said he loved him, he said that he would never hurt him, and then he pushed him away. Then he told Sokka that being together was wrong. That kissing Zuko only hurt himself in the same way that he’d done with cutting and binging and every other fucked-up method of self-harm he’d ever tried. Sokka squeezed his eyes shut, tears dropping onto his lap and a sob escaping his lips when Zuko pulled him back into his arms.

It was better when they were close, and as they stayed there, Sokka sliding into Zuko’s lap and burying his head in his shoulder, he realized Zuko had a point. He was being stupid trying to push things too far when all he really wanted was the closeness and the comfort that came with it. They didn’t have to be kissing, didn’t have to be doing _that_ , they just had to be there for each other. Sokka just needed _someone_ to be there for him because it didn’t matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t convince his brain anyone ever would be if they weren’t right in front of him for proof.

“I’m sorry.” Zuko wrapped a hand around Sokka’s head, pulling his hair back behind his ear again before pressing a kiss to his temple. Rather than responding, Sokka said nothing, just wrapping his arms around Zuko’s stomach and twisting the cloth in his hands. “You know it’s not because I don’t like you, right? It’s because I do. I care about you so, _so_ much. I just want you to be okay and coping like that won’t help.”

“I know.” It was pathetic how quiet and sad his words came out, not to mention the fresh tears that came with them. “I— I want to be okay too.”

Zuko nodded, gently pressing one more kiss to his cheek. “Get some rest, okay? I got you. You’re safe.”

And though his scent and his colors both said it couldn’t be true, Sokka chose to believe him.


	7. Accepting Help is its Own Kind of Strength

“No, no, no, you can’t do this. You can’t. _Dad_.” Sokka’s voice got more frantic with every word, his eyes wide and his shaking only worsening when Hakoda placed a hand on each of his upper arms. He didn’t get the chance to speak. “Dad, please. You can’t do this to me. You can’t. I— I need to do this. I won’t just walk away. I can’t— I can’t just—”

“Sokka, breathe.” The pressure on his shoulders was too much. Sokka ripped away on the left and his dad must’ve understood, because he fully released the grasp of his fingers, only resting his hands on his son instead. “I know you don’t want to stop helping us, but you can’t do it anymore, okay? I won’t make you go home on your own, you can stay here with us, but you admitted it was the fact that you blamed yourself for the plans that drove you to relapsing in the first place. I can’t let you keep helping if it’s hurting you. I’m sorry.”

More than anything in the world, Sokka wanted to fight back. He wanted to tell his dad that he was overreacting and that working would really make him feel better, but it wasn’t true. Everyone knew that it wasn’t true, so he gave up. He mostly gave up because he was too weak to fight back—due to blood loss from cutting, dehydration from purging, and just being way too overwhelmed from all his panic attacks according to Katara—but also because, deep down, he really wanted a break. Even if he did feel stupid sitting around while everyone else worked hard every day. Even if he did feel pathetic when all his friends inevitably came to check in on him at least once a day. Even if everything did still hurt and not working made it only marginally better.

He spent a lot of time at the cliff, though he was never allowed to be on his own. Sometimes, Sokka managed to sneak away, but someone would inevitably come up beside him and he knew that meant they’d been there all along. Not that he could really blame them. After all, the last time he was left alone, he’d shredded his own knuckles until there was nothing left, and only days before that, he’d nearly killed himself by cutting his own arm. Still, that didn’t make it any easier for Sokka to accept the help. He tried to push everyone away the best he could, repeatedly reminding them that focusing on the war efforts was more important than anything else, but they never listened. They kept taking care of him. They kept making sure he ate. They kept checking on his arms twice or more a day.

They kept treating him like a fucking baby and words couldn’t describe how much he hated it.

Without being allowed to work on the strategies themselves, there was little left for Sokka to do. He spent the majority of his days depression napping, being forced to spend time with his friends, and depression napping after passing out while being forced to spend time with his friends. Generally, all Sokka wanted to do was run away. Physically, he was incapable of walking more than a little way without his cane and someone following close in his tracks. It was like living in a prison, having to go about his day however his family planned it and being unable to do anything to get away. Part of him almost thought it _would_ be better to just go back to the tribe. At least then he could be alone again.

Some amount of time after everything came to light—Sokka lost the last of his ability to tell time when his days turned into a never-ending cycle of sleeping and being force fed—and several more plans failed, Sokka was taking another nap. He wasn’t in his tent that time, nor was he using a pillow. Instead, he was resting on Zuko’s lap, the Fire Lord gently stroking his hair with one hand as he worked on something with the other. Sokka couldn’t be bothered to ask what it was. It wasn’t like Zuko was going to answer or let him help with it anyway, so there was no point. He just closed his eyes and did his best stay asleep. It was the next best option once they took away the cliff.

Because of course, the second they noticed the way Sokka stared over the edge and connected it to when he accidentally cut too deep, they stopped him from going over. They stopped him from going to the one place that brought him comfort in the middle of that disgusting Earth Kingdom forest. He’d done it every day for ages and nobody cared before. He couldn’t count the number of times that Zuko sat down beside him, talked to him there for hours, and nobody said a thing. Now suddenly, he wasn’t allowed to go on walks anymore? Granted, they _did_ stop him a lot when he was intending to push his leg too far, but still. It was his body. It should’ve been his choice how he wanted to take care of it, and it wasn’t. Nothing was his choice anymore.

“Hey. Open your eyes, Sokka.” It wasn’t the words that got him up, but the gentle stroking of his cheek. Slowly, Zuko was able to coax him back into reality, pulling him from whatever nightmare he’d been on the cusp of. Sokka nuzzled into Zuko’s leg, his eyes drifting shut again as Zuko slid the hair on his cheek back behind his ear. “You’re okay. It was just a dream. Nobody can hurt us here.”

“Mm. Sorry.” The moment Sokka spoke, Zuko leaned forward and kissed his temple, smoothing out his hair one more time. He _really_ needed to cut it or at least pull it back, but it felt pointless when he was sleeping away his life regardless. “Don’t remember what I was dreaming about.”

“It’s all right. You were just mumbling about— never mind. It doesn’t matter. Just try and get some—”

Presumably, Zuko was going to finish that sentence by suggesting that Sokka get some rest, but he didn’t get the chance. Before he could say anything else, the tent suddenly shifted open and Hakoda poked his head in, looking to Zuko for permission before stepping inside. Sokka sat up when he saw his dad, accepting the arm Zuko wrapped around him and leaning into his embrace once he was up. Hakoda sat down on the floor near them, hesitating and reaching out to give Sokka’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. His hands were still wrapped in bandages but it was for comfort more than anything else. His knuckles were sensitive to contact and having an extra layer of protection helped.

“Listen, Sokka,” started Hakoda, his words slow and his tone uncertain, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about what happened. If you’re not feeling up to it, that’s okay, but I think it’s really important we talk and kind of figure out what your triggers are so we know what we can do to try and keep this from getting worse again. You all right with that? We can do it alone later too if that’s better.”

“No, it’s okay. I want Zuko to know.” In response, Zuko pressed another kiss to his temple, wrapping one hand around the other side of Sokka’s head and carefully playing with his hair. “I treated you like shit. You deserve an explanation for it.”

“I don’t _deserve_ anything,” Zuko argued, “but if you want me to stay, I will.”

Sokka nodded and leaned back into Zuko’s shoulder, accepting the hand that wrapped around his and gently squeezing his fingers. Having a hand to hold made it easier to deal with. It made him feel less guilty for everything he said during his panic attack when his dad started apologizing for things he said he should’ve talked about years ago. Sokka tried to insist he was out of line with his own comments, but Hakoda took the entirety of the blame. He should’ve been there for his son growing up and he wasn’t. That was on him, regardless of whether there was a war going on, and the same thing still applied even if Sokka was an adult now.

The start of their conversation was just about that. How Sokka’s childhood was affected by Hakoda’s absence and others being gone, Katara’s powers, his mom’s death. He felt sick by the end of it, but that was just the start. Then they began to talk about what drove him to binging and self-harm the first time around—because Hakoda did know that already, of course—and Sokka wanted to hurl because he knew that the next part was coming. The part where he would have to explain himself again. When Hakoda inevitably asked him to share whether he thought any of the same kind of triggers might have been involved that time around, he froze. When he asked his son to start at the beginning, he wet his lips six times before even trying.

“It was after the first casualties, I think,” Sokka started, his thumbnail still at the edge of his mouth. “I came up with the plans that backfired on them. Little help from anyone else, even in the final stages. Everyone said it wasn’t my fault, but I— I blamed myself. I couldn’t sleep. I thought I deserved some kind of punishment and no one would do anything and I saw the scars on my arms and I just thought— the binging was later. I had the snacks because they reminded me of home. I didn’t mean for it to get out of hand like that.”

The only part that wasn’t true was that Sokka couldn’t remember it well. He remembered both instances very vividly. The first time he relapsed on his self-harm, Sokka was pacing around his room after finding out they’d lost half a dozen men in the crossfire. Because _his_ plan went wrong. He’d begged for some kind of punishment the best he could without straight up asking for it, and upon taking his shirt off for bed, saw the scars and decided to take care of it himself. Sokka didn’t sleep a wink that night. It was too hard to doze off with such a heavy conscience due to the casualties, not to mention the guilt from relapsing after so long being clean.

On the other hand, the binging was entirely an accident. It was well into the conflicts and all Sokka wanted was to go home. He went for a snack, hungry after skipping dinner in favor of work, and ended up eating seal jerky and sobbing because he was so homesick. Feeling like he was at home put him at a sort of peace, and so instead of stopping after a healthy snack, he kept going. He kept eating, kept crying, and didn’t stop until he felt like throwing up, so he did. The whole process barely registered as unhealthy until he was there on his knees. Until he went back the next night and did it all over again until he threw up not from overeating, but from the guilt of it. Because he knew what he was doing and he couldn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop binging. He couldn’t stop cutting. He couldn’t stop _anything_ , and it hurt.

“I don’t even really know what it was after that, if I’m honest.” And he was being honest. Normally, Sokka would’ve done anything to hide from the people he loved to avoid hurting them at any cost, but not that day. He already had a way out of it. “It’s just like… once I started doing it, I didn’t know how to stop anymore. It just became part of my day, you know? I didn’t— I didn’t binge _every_ night but I always cut. Usually when I got frustrated with myself. It was never because of anything you guys did, I swear. It was just… me. I hate me. I’ve always hated me.”

Despite how long he’d known that, it wasn’t until he said the words that everything really started to sink in. Sokka genuinely never stopped to think about when exactly it started, and when he did, he realized it never really had. From the time he was little, Katara was the special one, and he was that kid on the side whether intentionally or not. When his mom died, he didn’t know how to take care of himself anymore and since he was the big brother, everyone just assumed he was more responsible. When his dad left, he became the man of the tribe and nobody cared about his identity beyond that. He didn’t care about himself because he never really had a reason to. His life was about taking care of the people he loved, not the other way around.

“Why?” More than anything else, Hakoda’s word sounded hurt, and Sokka immediately felt a stab of guilt in his chest. That was what he didn’t want to do. He didn’t want to harm anybody. “It’s okay if you don’t have an answer, I’m just trying to figure out how we can help you.”

“I— I don’t really matter, I guess,” Sokka mumbled, reaching up to chew on his thumbnail. “I think I said something during my panic attack but everyone else is so special and I’m just… not. I’m not even fun to be around, I’m just rambly and sarcastic. I annoy _myself_. And I’m a failure. I’ve always been a failure, I don’t even know why you guys brought me on as a good strategist because I’m not. Plus, I haven’t been able to move right since the comet and I know it’s not my fault everything that could heal wrong did heal wrong but it just… it sucks. It really, really fucking sucks because being a warrior was the one thing I was okay at and I can’t even do that anymore. I can’t do anything.”

“That’s not true, Sokka, you—”

Ironically, the universe didn’t seem to agree with that statement because the _second_ Hakoda started to explain _why_ Sokka wasn’t utterly useless and a failure of a human being, Aang poked his head in the tent, followed by Toph’s feet peeking out through the cloth. He looked a little guilty to have interrupted what they were doing, but whatever was going on must have been urgent because the slight awkwardness wasn’t enough to stop him entirely. Aang stepped inside, wrapping his hands behind his back as his gaze shifted over to Zuko.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt,” he started uncomfortably, glancing over to Sokka and his dad. “I didn’t know you were all in here and, well, we think we figured out a plan. There are still a few problems with it but we’ve been working on the details all morning and we were wondering if you might be able to take a look at it? Since it does directly affect your people, and since you’ll probably have some different ideas for the places we got stuck at. Unless you’re busy! We can keep working on it alone if you want.”

“No, it’s okay.” Zuko shook his head quickly, reaching out when he realized Toph was holding something behind Aang. “I can take a look at it.”

And that was where things got seriously shitty because Sokka was a dumb fuck and didn’t leave when he had the chance. It quickly went from just the two of them to Hakoda joining in, then Bato, Suki, and Katara all showed up by request. Apparently, an entire plan had been going on without Sokka’s knowledge. He listened, watched, and _ached_ to be a part of it, but he knew they wouldn’t let him, so he didn’t join in. He just leaned against his dad’s shoulder when Zuko had to move to work on the plans, nodded when Suki asked whether he was okay because apparently he looked a little weird, and ate lunch with them when they took a break because he was in no physical or mental state to be fighting back.

It was almost three hours into the strategizing when Sokka started to lose the ability to hold his tongue. He knew what was wrong with the plan. He could see the impact point that was cracking the whole operation, but he couldn’t say anything because they would stop him. Already, every one of his friends had asked at _least_ one time whether he was okay, and he couldn’t take it anymore. If he tried to interrupt at all, they’d tell him off. But the more time passed, the harder he bit his tongue. He tried to convince himself that if he let them go long enough, they’d figure out the answer on their own, but they didn’t. The problem was staring them right in the face and they didn’t even know how to see it. They didn’t get it at _all_ and at a certain point, Sokka felt like he had to interrupt for the sake of his own sanity.

“You’re not taking into account the fact that these people hold entirely different core beliefs.” It was the first time he’d spoken in over an hour and either everyone realized that or they were so concerned they were shocked to see him interject on something that used to be his specialty. “You’re assuming they’re all good people and they’re all going to react to this the same way but they’re not. We’re working with different colonies, different leadership, and most importantly, different nations. The Earth Kingdom sees this completely opposite from how the Fire Nation does. And don’t get me wrong, I think they’re both fucking stupid politicians, but it’s true. Here, let me—”

“Sokka, stop it.” Of course, it was Hakoda who wrapped an arm around his stomach to stop him from moving forward. All he wanted to do was draw a few lines on the paper, scribble down a couple of words to get his point across. Apparently, that was too detrimental to his health. It was bullshit. Writing never killed anyone. “I know you want to help and thank you for that, but we agreed that you’re not doing this anymore.”

“That was before you spent the last hour on the wrong track because I ‘wasn’t allowed’ to fix it. This is different. Just give me five minutes, okay?”

“I wasn’t gone for _one_ before you had your panic attack.”

The only reason Sokka didn’t immediately shoot back was because that sentence made him realize that Hakoda wasn’t trying to be controlling. He was genuinely _terrified_ that Sokka wouldn’t be okay, and that it would be because of him. Because he didn’t do enough. They were stuck in the same mindset of taking responsibility for things they had no part in, and Sokka felt like shit for not realizing it sooner. He had to get his own self-deprecation from somewhere, he figured, he just never would’ve guessed it to be his amazing dad. Sokka swallowed hard, turning his gaze to meet his dad’s before he tried again.

“Please, Dad. This is bigger than us.” Instantly, Hakoda looked like he wanted to retaliate, but Sokka didn’t give him the chance. “You’re all in here, right? You, Bato, Katara, the gang—you’re not going to let anything happen to me, but if I don’t get my point across, this isn’t going to stop. So just let me try. _Please_. If I start to get overwhelmed or disappointed in myself, I’ll tell you, and I’ll stop, okay? I promise. I’m still putting myself first but just let me make this second.”

Though still clearly hesitant, Hakoda eventually nodded and released his son. Immediately, Sokka slid forward to reach the plans, not resisting when Zuko tossed a pillow over to Katara and she slid it under her brother’s leg. He was already deep in his thoughts, scribbling out various things his friends had written and adding in other details as he mumbled to himself. Before he could even start to explain what he meant by his interjection, Sokka needed to make a visual to show them. The only problem was that the longer he wrote for, the worse his hand started to ache. He used to just switch hands when he got tired, but that wasn’t an easy option anymore with his bad shoulder. Sokka stopped when Suki reached out to take his chalk, but nodded and mumbled instructions as he dropped his hand into his lap.

It took a little longer than he would’ve preferred since Sokka wasn’t able to write himself, but Suki was good at translating his ideas and within minutes, they were bouncing ideas back and forth again. Sokka almost never stopped talking, though he found himself freezing whenever Zuko reached out to touch his arm or pull his hair back, or when Toph’s foot shifted in that way which said his heart was racing too fast. It wasn’t because it annoyed him, but because for once, it didn’t. He understood that his family was just looking out for him. That Katara didn’t offer to heal his hands because she thought he was weak and Aang wasn’t overly gentle with his occasional arguments because he thought Sokka was fragile. They just wanted him to be okay, and he wanted to be okay too.

Sokka felt better when he was at work. When he wasn’t alone boiling in a pot of his disgusting, self-detrimental thoughts. Having his family there to help him through everything made it easier. Once or twice, Sokka still got frustrated with himself and what he perceived to be his failures, but someone always talked him down. Bato helped him work through his struggles and Zuko hugged him or kissed his ear when he started to get overwhelmed. It was a long afternoon and it bled into evening but before he knew what was happening, the plans were drawn and Sokka was done. They were all done. At least, they were out of ideas as to how to expand beyond what they came up with, and everyone seemed too satisfied to try.

“I think we did it.” Toph sounded almost in awe, her hands wrapped around her feet but her eyes narrowed as if she were still running over everything they’d planned in her head. “I mean, I could be wrong, but I rarely am. Don’t you think this sounds like it’ll work? I can’t think of any way this could go wrong! Normally we have at least a couple potential casualties in there but assuming they don’t just open fire, I’m pretty sure we’ll all get out alive.”

“Everyone?” Sokka blinked, his hands shaking out of nowhere. He hadn’t seen the spirits in days—furthering his theory they’d been hallucinations all along—but their memory still lingered on, invading his dreams, and twisting them into nightmares. “You really think so? Nobody else has to die?”

“No, not if we— are you okay? Your heart is beating _really_ fast all of a sudden.”

Regardless of whether he wanted to, Sokka couldn’t give her a thorough answer. He nodded the best he could, but his body was too mentally and physically overwhelmed to provide anything more sufficient. It wasn’t easy to find a way to explain himself when the core sense of his emotions was the flooding feeling of relief. If no one else was going to die, then no more spirits would ever be able to haunt him, and maybe he could even make peace with those who already were. Maybe he could finally make amends for where he’d failed and move past all that pain.

Sokka must’ve been a little too obvious in how much he was shaking because Hakoda pulled him back into his arms without a word. He allowed his eyes to drift shut, taking a deep breath in a failed attempt to steady himself. He was more than aware that his ridiculous overreactions were all due to how poorly he’d been treating his body, but given he’d been trying to correct it, he felt his emotions were still too extreme. Sokka swallowed hard, accepting Zuko’s hand when he reached out to give Sokka’s a squeeze. He needed something to ground him. That was it.

He was it.

“Sorry,” Sokka mumbled as soon as he found it in him to speak again. “I didn’t mean to— I’m just really glad that it’s okay. Or it will be okay. Hopefully. You know what I mean. It’s just, I— I’ve— I’ve been seeing the spirits of the men who died in battle and I feel like I’m losing my fucking mind every time and that’s why I kept cutting because I felt so bad and they wouldn’t leave and I just think maybe if this works, they— they won’t keep—”

“Oh, Sokka.” It was almost comforting that Hakoda was the first person to respond to the confession. Whether it was him or Katara didn’t matter, but Sokka needed his closest family to let him know that it was okay. That it didn’t change how they felt about him, regardless of how uncomfortable and weird it was. “You should’ve said something, bud. We asked if there was anything else and you know— you know we never would’ve judged you for that, right? Especially with how badly you’ve been treating your body, hallucinations wouldn’t be too out of the—”

“I know, but I didn’t want to say anything because it _feels_ real. I— logically, I know that it’s probably just hallucinations and it fits with when you all made me start taking care of myself again but that doesn’t— it feels real and it hurts, okay? It— I don’t know how to explain it, I just didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t think it was a good idea to let anyone know. I’m sorry. I’m not going to keep anything from you guys anymore.”

When the words formed on his lips was when Sokka realized that he really wanted them to be true. He was desperate for himself to be okay, for everyone to be okay, but it was starting to feel like that might not be possible. Sokka was so good at bottling things up that, at a certain point, he wasn’t even sure that he knew how to dig them out anymore. He wasn’t sure whether he would be able to follow through with his promises or if they’d become empty just by way of the fact that he didn’t _know_ how to do it. He barely knew how to consciously express himself, let alone open up about the things that hurt the most.

He tried it anyway. Despite how hard it was for Sokka to go to his dad and Bato when he wanted to cut, he dragged himself out of bed and he did it. Despite how hard it was to go find Zuko or Katara when he didn’t want to sleep alone, he did it. Despite how hard it was to open up when he needed support, he asked for it. He went to Suki, to Toph, to Aang, to _anyone_ who he trusted to listen to his problems and help him cope in a way that kept them all safe. That kept him from cutting himself when it hurt, from standing on the cliff when it got too hard, from forcing himself to help deliver the proposed treaties because his leg was too fucked up and at a certain point, he _had_ to accept that.

It was easier to do when he was in the arms of someone he loved. Not always physically, but at least when he was close to them. Lying beside Toph, Suki, Aang, Katara, between Hakoda and Bato, or even lying right on Zuko’s muscular chest, he felt okay. Though they were around the same height, Sokka realized that Zuko held more muscle mass than him and somehow, it wasn’t even bothersome. It wasn’t the same as when he looked at Suki and all he could see was what his injury cost him. Not after talking to everyone and realizing that there was always an upside. That maybe he was smaller than Zuko, but that made him perfect for being the little spoon. For crawling into his arms after a bad day and nuzzling into his warm chest.

That was the biggest thing he had to accept, regardless of how impossible it sometimes seemed to be. Everything started because he felt like he was alone, insignificant, worthless, stupid, pathetic—the adjectives went on, but they weren’t true. They felt like they were true, like it was his destiny to be that way, but every day, people told him that wasn’t true. Every day, his friends and his family told him they loved him and they cared about him and at a certain point, it started to feel like they might not be lying. Like Sokka wasn’t quite as terrible as he always thought himself to be and there was a chance that, if he held out for long enough, things might start to be okay.

Not that his occasional moments of optimism made it significantly easier to live through the pain or that he magically wasn’t anxious when it came time to draw up the final drafts of the treaty. Sokka didn’t tell anyone when he was hurting that day because it felt irrelevant and it felt like a one-off thing. They were all busy working on the plans, working on _saving lives_ , and Sokka wasn’t important enough to get in the way of that. He convinced himself not to binge when he felt the need but he scraped his arm by accident and the urges took over from there. Sokka didn’t stop himself from cutting the back of his arm open the rest of the way. From peeling at the wounds until he cried.

But really, he was just draining old failures, so what did it matter anyway?


End file.
